Sweets to the Sweet
by PeonyPierce
Summary: "It will be their worst nightmare disguised as their wildest dream." Welcome to the 95th annual Hunger Games!
1. Sweets

**Disclaimer: I don't own _The Hunger Games_**

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 _"Sweets to the Sweet"_

 **\- William Shakespeare**

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I am shaking from the deep red hair atop my head down to my leather boots. I clutch my portfolio in unsteady hands. My face feels hot. A bead of sweat dribbles down my neck. Then another. And another. My eyes are locked, staring at the cool lilac wall straight ahead of me.

 _It's okay, Yalia,_ I tell myself. But obviously it's not okay. Nothing about the Hunger Games is okay. But I have to think of Ziva. I have to land this job to protect her.

"Yalia Stride?" The cool female voice nearly shocks me out of my seat.

"Me!" I announce. Blushing, I stutter "s-sorry. I mean ... that's me. I'm Yalia. I'm here."

"The President will see you now."

"Okay. Thank you." I follow President Crimson's assistant into his office. She gives me an encouraging nod, and I sit down opposite the president of Panem.

"Yalia Stride," he says, before I can open my mouth.

I try to say "yes," but no sound comes out. Instead, I nod. Try as I might, I cannot bring myself to meet his hard, cold gaze.

"It's an honor, President Crimson," I finally manage to say in a weak voice, looking down at my portfolio.

 _This is it, Yalia. This is your one chance to become Head Gamemaker. Impress him!_

I force myself to look at him. "I brought with me a portfolio full of ideas for the upcoming Games. Shall we take a look?"

"Not just yet, my dear." The way he enunciates the last word makes me squirm in my seat. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Ms. Stride?"

"No. Of course not, sir," I lie.

"Ms. Stride I would like to get to know you a bit better. I think that was what went wrong with our last Gamemaker. You do recall Head Gamemaker Charlin, I presume? Or rather, ex-Head Gamemaker Charlin. It's a pity we had to, um, _let him go,_ but his personality simply did not mesh with mine as I'd so hoped it would."

I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

President Crimson pauses. He is looking at me. I resist the urge to hide my face in my hands. I chance a glance at him. His expression is inquisitive.

"My dear Ms. Stride, you have nothing to fear. I sense you will be a far more obedient Head Gamemaker than your predecessor."

Head Gamemaker? My predecessor? Does that mean I got the job?

"Don't rejoice just yet," he chides, as though reading my mind. "I still need to see what you've brought for me."

I reach for the portfolio, but he shakes his head. "Not just yet, my dear. There is more to discuss."

Unsure what to say, I wait in silence for him to continue.

"You're not all that verbose are you, Ms. Stride?"

I shake my head sheepishly.

"But that's quite all right. I prefer to do most of the talking."

I meet his eyes long enough for him to wink at me, sending a chill down my spine.

"Now, my dear, why don't you tell me a little bit about your daughter" he says each word slowly and deliberately.

"My daughter? She's wonderful. Her name's Ziva. She just turned twelve."

"Ah. I see."

I swallow a lump in my throat. I should not have mentioned her age.

"By my rough calculations," the President goes on with a coy smile, "that would make her eligible to be Reaped this for the next upcoming Games."

I nod, staring at my boots.

"And I take it you are well aware that the names of the children of the Head Gamemaker are removed from the Reaping pool?"

"But that's not the only reason I want this job," I mutter unconvincingly.

"It's quite understandable, Ms. Stride. It pains me to include Capitol children in the Games at all, but it was a necessary measure to quell the rebellion after the seventy-fifth Games. I take it you remember?"

"I was just a little girl then. I don't remember much myself, but I've learned all about it in school."

"Isn't eduction simply wonderful?" He does not wait for me to respond. "Forgive me, Ms. Stride, for recapping what you have undoubtedly learned during your youth, but perhaps you might benefit for the perspective of someone such as myself who was so heavily involved in the story? Yes? Wonderful. Well, Ms. Stride, luckily, I was here to lead an army for Panem to put down the rebellion, namely by executing its leader, Katniss Everdeen, before she and her rebel friends could become too much of a threat to Panem. When President Snow died of, um, natural causes, who better than myself to take over the position of president, don't you agree Ms. Stride?"

I nod and coerce my lips into something of a shy smile.

"Well the the people of Panem certainly agree. I've been doing a rather better job of leading Panem than Snow, wouldn't you agree, Ms. Stride?"

I nod and attempt to smile once more.

"After the rebels were put in their place, and the districts submissive once more, I ushered in an era of Hunger Games that was better than ever. I banned all Victors from the first seventy-five Games from mentoring, as they might still hold the seed of rebellion in their hearts. Especially that Peeta Mellark. I sometimes wonder whether my benevolence in letting him live was foolish. But no matter, he can always be taken care of later."

I can feel my eyes widen in horror. President Crimson does not seem to notice; he is too engrossed in the story.

The only precaution I had to take to ensure the success of my regime was to add two Capitol tributes to the Games. While I love every single citizen of the Capito - man, woman, and child - this seemed a small price to pay to keep the Games going. It is a small price to pay for Hunger Games that are better than ever. The districts were appeased as they felt the Capitol children were not receiving special treatment. Of course, you Gamemakers always give our Capitol tributes some help from behind the scenes. But the districts don't have to know about that."

I feel sick to my stomach. If I get this job, Ziva can't be Reaped. But her friends, classmates ... they all can. I always hated the idea of the Hunger Games, especially since I became a mother. I can hardly stand notion that young kids should being forced to fight to the death. Twenty-three children's families may never recover. Yet, I became a Gamemaker anyway. I had to. It was the only way I could work my way up to Head Gamemaker and ensure Ziva's safety. I have done, and will continue to do, whatever it takes to ensure my daughter's safety.

The president flashes his coy grin once more. "Of course, I needn't fret. Nor you if this meeting continues to go well," _Continues_ to go well? That's a good sign, right? "as the children of the president and Head Gamemaker are safe from the Reaping."

I breathe a sigh of relief. The president's gaze does not waver from my face, and, for the first time, I meet it with equal strength.

"It's not just about Ziva," I assert forcefully. He seems convinced by my lie "I had a lot of fun creating my Arena plans!" This is partly true. I do enjoy the creative component of Gamemaking even if I find the concept of Games themselves repulsive.

My use of the word "fun" seems to reassure him.

"Well then, let's see those plans of yours."

I fumble with the portfolio for a moment before pulling out my Arena plans.

"As you can see-" I begin, prepared to launch into the monologue I practiced over the past few weeks, but he holds up a hand to silence me. His eyes scan the pages, one by one.

"How ... sweet," he mutters with a chuckle. "Yes, your plans seem to be quite promising, Ms. Stride. It will be their worst nightmare disguised as their wildest dream. Welcome to the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games, Ms. Stride." He extends his hand for me to shake.

Elated, I grasp it, adding "and may the odds be ever in your favor."

He faces the window on the wall to his right, lost in thought. "And may it be oh so sweet, my sweets."

Unsure exactly whom he his addressing, I nod politely and exit the room, mind reeling.

This is it. I've done it. I've actually done it! I let out a yelp of delight as I pass by President Crimson's assistant's desk, but I don't care.

President Crimson appointed me Head Gamemaker. Ziva is safe from the Hunger Games. All I have to do is keep the job until she's past Reaping age.

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 **Thanks for reading this! Welcome to the 95th annual Hunger Games SYOT! The submission form and some more details are on my profile.**

 **Just to recap a bit: In this universe, which I have dubbed the CrimsonVerse, President Crimson formed an army to kill Katniss and quell the rebellion following the events of _Catching Fire_. He took over after President Snow's death a decade later. President Crimson reinstated the Hunger Games, starting with the 76th 10 years after the 75th. All other living Victors were banned from mentoring tributes, just in case they still had any rebellious ideas they could instill in the tributes. To prevent another rebellion from occurring, President Crimson added two Capitol tributes to make the Games seem less unfair to the districts.**

 **I can't wait to meet your tributes! Happy submitting!**

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 **Questions to think about if you are so kind as to review this chapter :D**

 **1) What do you think of Yalia and President Crimson?**

 **2) What do you think the Arena will be based on the story title and this chapter?**


	2. Aftermath

_"The pain of war cannot exceed the woe of aftermath"_

 ** _-_ Led Zeppelin**

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 **Brielle Darling, 17, Capitol Female**

 **Victor of the 93rd Hunger Games**

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"Tea, my darling, Ms. Darling?" President Crimson's eyes bore right through me. I know the president is trying to be kind, by offering me tea, but I don't like the way he plays with my name. It reminds me that I am merely a toy for him to play with and dispose of at will. All of Panem is nothing more than a toy box to him.

I shake my head, pushing some hair in front of my face to conceal it from his view. Some glitter falls from my hair onto my lap. My hairdresser must not have done such a great job. Some Capitol citizens would march back into the salon and demand a redo or a refund. Elita certainly would. I can hear her voice in my head now. _"We are the Capitol Victors. We are the best of the best. We deserve anything and everything we've ever dreamed of."_

But she's wrong. Perhaps she's simply more resilient, or more cruel, or better at hiding her pain than most of us Victors. It's been nearly a decade since her Games. Perhaps time has dulled her emotional pain. But I only won two years ago. I vividly remember the screams of the District Six boy and the District Two girl as I pushed them into the lava. I had no choice. I was small, and they were ganging up on me. I had to act. Yet, their screams still ring vividly in my ears day and night. I killed them. They are dead, and it is my fault. Sometimes the pain of it threatens to overwhelm me. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, in the tips of my fingers and toes, in the depths of my mind.

The girl from Two, Lana, had been one of my allies; I used my Capitol status to weasel my way into the Career pack. The boy from Six was named Devyn. I don't know much about him, but I know that I'm his murderer. I'm the face of evil that will forever haunt his family members and friends.

I remember enough about my own Games not to delude myself into believing that being from the Capitol makes me better than anyone from the districts or that being a Victor makes me any better than the tributes who perished in the Hunger Games.

I'm not better than anyone else at all. I'm just much, much luckier.

"Suit yourself," Crimson says slowly, enunciating each syllable as he tends to do. He turns to offer tea to the other three Capitol Victors: Adalee, Elita, and Damian.

This is the third time I have sat at Crimson's ornate wooden conference room table. The first time was shortly after I was named Victor of the ninety-third annual Hunger Games. He droned on an on about pride in the Capitol and Panem, while I sat and thought of Lana and Devyn and all the other dead tributes who were also from Panem. The president did not take any interest in them. He does not mourn the deaths of his own citizens. He cares only about his own power. He has taken an interest in myself and the other Victors only because of the tender positions we hold in the hearts of the Capitol citizens.

The second time I sat in this room was exactly one year ago. Crimson likes to sit down with all of the Capitol Victors every year to discuss the upcoming Games.

Each time I interact with the president, despite his efforts to create a casual atmosphere, I feel as though I am being interrogated. Tested. Violated.

There is a knock on the conference room door. Crimson says "come in," but his gaze continues to travel between the four of us.

Crimson's assistant enters the room. "Mr. President, Yalia Stride is here to see you."

"Ah. Good. Send her in. She should meet the Victors."

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 **Damian Newly, 22, Capitol Male**

 **Victor of the 91st Hunger Games**

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The woman's hair is stick straight and deep red in color. Her cheeks are rosy and her nose is too perfect to not be surgically modified. I wonder whether she had the nose job to impress a man. She is dressed from head to toe in leather.

I sense that this Yalia Stride woman is shy and weak. She avoids President Crimson's eyes. Her knees actually begin to shake when she realizes that the only empty seat at the table is next to Crimson himself, across from us four Victors.

Yalia reminds me of Brielle in a way. They both lack strength and confidence.

Brielle is always going on about how she only survived the Hunger Games on sheer dumb luck. She's right. All she did was get in with the Career pack and let them do all the dirty work. Before she knew it, almost all of the tributes had torn each other apart. When only three tributes remained, all Brielle had to do was push the other two into the hot lava that characterized her Arena, and poof. She was victorious.

Me, on the other hand ... I did not just get lucky. I am the Capitol's sole Career Victor. We have had a few more trained Volunteers over the years, but so far no one else has won.

I killed. And killed. And killed. And killed. That's right, I killed four people. Did it feel horrible? Yes. Does the guilt still weigh me down sometimes? Certainly. Do I still have nightmares in which I hear their screams of terror and watch the tears stream down their families' faces? Of course. I'm not a monster. I did what I had to do to survive. I did what I had to do to claim my rightful place as Victor and to claim all the glory I deserved for myself, for my family, and for the Capitol.

And it was all worth it.

"Dearest Victors," Crimson begins to speak. He rises from his chair, and we follow suit. "Please be seated," he says after an awkward moment during which we all stand around and stare at each other. "It is my greatest pleasure to introduce Yalia Stride, the newest Head Gamemaker of Panem's esteemed Hunger Games." We clap politely. "And my dear Ms. Stride, it is with greatest honor that I introduce you to Mrs. Adalee Verona, Ms. Elita Nirvana, Mr. Damian Newly, and Ms. Brielle Darling. These four outstanding individuals are the Capitol's four Victors. It pleases me beyond belief that the Capitol had produced more Victors than any district since the Hunger Games were reinstated nineteen years ago."

Yalia seems to be trying to speak, but the words don't come. She appears torn between congratulating us on our victories and expressing her condolences for all that we've suffered.

She's indecisive. _Weak_. Just as I predicted.

"Hi! I'm Adalee!"

Elita and I exchange looks of exasperation. Adalee is grinning broadly, and her hand is outstretched. Yalia takes it tentatively

"Ms. Stride has a daughter," Crimson comments. "Twelve years old. _Precious_ thing. And the father is ... nowhere to be found, if I am not mistaken?"

Yalia blushes a deep scarlet. Apparently, Crimson is not mistaken after all.

"But Mrs. Verona is a mother as well. Note my usage of 'Mrs.' she is married to the father of her three children."

Yalia's face becomes an even deeper shade of red to match her hair. This is typical Crimson: preying on the weak, and bringing out his target's deepest insecurities. Then again, it is Yalia's fault for being weak. Crimson could never get to me or Elita or even Adalee like this. Elita and I are obviously the truly hardcore ones of the group. Adalee is annoying as anything and probably the most sickeningly cheerful person on the planet, but she's strong too. She's not afraid to stand up for herself. The same cannot be said for Brielle nor for this Yalia girl.

Elita and I exchange another glance. I raise my eyebrows seductively at her and she nods in response. This is our signal to meet up later for some ... adult fun.

"What's your daughter's name?" Adalee gushes.

"Ziva," Yalia responds, meeting Adalee's smile.

"How beautiful!" Adalee's violet eyes are wide with excitement behind long, fluttering lashes. "I have three little girls myself. Their names are Amilyn, Adonica, and Anniella."

"They sound very sweet," Yalia says. I don't know where she's getting that idea from. Adalee only told her their names.

"They are! They are the sweetest, most adorable, most wonderful little girls in all of Panem!" Adalee springs out of her seat, runs around the table, and flings her arms around Yalia. "I'm so happy another mother will be Head Gamemaker from now on. You'll take care of the little darling tributes as best as you can, won't you? Won't you?"

Yalia nods a bit, overwhelmed.

"Mrs. Verona, kindly return to your seat." Crimson says, clearing his throat.

Adalee does as she is told.

"And now, I present Ms. Elita Nirvana, Victor of the eighty-sixth annual Hunger Games."

Elita curtseys to Yalia and Crimson, but only I notice the mocking smirk plastered across her face; Yalia is too awkward to look at anyone but Adalee, who is retuning her smile. Brielle is looking at her feet, and Crimson is already gazing upon me with pride.

"And Mr. Damian Newly, Victor of the ninety-first Games."

"That's me," I say, winking at her. "The one and only Capitol Career Victor at your service."

"And finally, Ms. Brielle Darling. Ms. Darling is our newest Capitol Victor and we could not be prouder to have her with us today."

Brielle smiles slightly without showing her teeth. I can practically hear her heart beating in her chest, even though Elita sits between us. It's pathetic how much Crimson scares her.

Elita and I roll our eyes in unison.

 _Weak._

* * *

 **Elita Nirvana, 24, Capitol Female**

 **Victor of the 86th Hunger Games**

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Eggplant or lilac? Eggplant or lilac? That's the question of the week. As a Victor, I have made the color purple a big part of my persona. Naturally, each week I pick a shade of purple to die hair and paint my nails. I think I'll go with lilac for next week. Eggplant is too similar to plum which I have this week.

Yalia, the new Head Gamemaker, is stammering nervously. "Um. So, um, President Crimson. Um, sir, should I show them all my Arena plans?"

"Ms. Stride are you trying to ruin all the fun?" His words are lighthearted, but his tone is stern.

"Um. No. No, sir. Of course not, sir."

"Good girl. You are not trying to ruin all the fun. Therefore, you will not spoil the surprise for our dear Victors by showing them your Arena plans, now will you?"

Yalia shakes her head sheepishly.

"After all, the best part of being a Victor, is watching the Games unfold year after year, with the nearly unique perspective of having played the Games and lived. Oh how I envy you. Alas, I may only watch the Games with the perspective of Panem's leader, never as a former participant."

I roll my eyes. Watching the Games is the _worst_ part of being a Victor. That's the part that hurts. The best parts are the fame, the fortune, and the endless array of _stuff_ we have access to: beauty appointments as often as we like, gourmet food, gorgeous mansions. Sure, most people in the Capitol are wealthy, but they don't live with anything they could ever want right at their fingertips. We do. We are better. We were born better than the people of the districts, because we were born in the Capitol. And we grew up to be better than the people of the Capitol, because we won the Hunger Games.

"Um, so," Yalia takes a deep breath, and finally manages to make eye contact with the president and then with each Victor. "What am I doing here?" Her voice is small. She doesn't want to sound rude.

I scoff audibly. I don't care about sounding rude.

"Well Ms. Stride, I simply brought you here to get to know our lovely Victors. Furthermore, I wanted you to see that the Capitol produces the most wonderful Victors in all of Panem. Perhaps you should keep that in mind throughout this year's Games. I think another Victor from the Capitol could make a wonderful addition to this charming group."

"How can she possibly see that we're the best, if she hasn't met any of the other losers?" I spit.

Making Crimson angry is a cherished hobby of mine.

"I beg your pardon, Ms. Nirvana?"

"Well, you know that we're the best Victors, President Crimson, because you know _all_ of the Victors. She's only met us. I mean, sure, she's seen the rest of them on television, but she's never actually met any of the district Victors. So how can she know that we're the best?"

"Enough, Ms. Nirvana! Must you nitpick everything I say? Can you not simply accept the compliment?" The president is breathing heavily. His nostrils are flaring and his face is bright red. Satisfied with the damage I've done, I shrug and recline back in my chair.

"But you're not going to give special treatment to the Capitol, right Ms. Stride?" It's the first time Brielle has spoken throughout the whole meeting. Her voice is high pitched and meek.

I roll my eyes at her. When she first won two years ago, I tried to be nice. I was her Mentor in the Games after all, so afterwards I tried to take her under my wing, but she just didn't get the whole concept of Victor life. She refuses to get her skin dyed, tattooed, or pierced. I convinced her to get some sparkles put into her lifeless hair, and she just lets them fall right out without complaint. Her outfits would be mediocre in District One; here they're just sad. And she rarely speaks, except to remind us all _yet again_ that we didn't deserve to live, and we just got lucky. Who wants to keep someone like that around?

"No, Brielle, of course not," Yalia reassures her, but the glint in the president's eye tells me that he has different plans. "And you can all call me Yalia. No need to be so formal."

Brielle has assumed the role of the quiet girl lacking self-confidence, and Yalia seems to have stepped up her game in response.

"Is this meeting over yet?" I snap.

Yalia looks to President Crimson. He nods once curtly. He is glaring at me, but I don't care. What's he going to do to me? I'm a Victor, and the people of Panem adore me. Short of actually sparking a rebellion, there is nothing I can do for which the president can kill me. And if surviving the Hunger Games has taught me something, it's that if they can't kill me, they can't break me.

"Good. In that case, I have some other business to take care of."

I grab Damian by the collar and pull him towards me. Our lips me, and I thrust my tongue between his teeth. We make out passionately for several minutes, not caring that the others are watching. _Glad_ the others are watching. Especially Crimson. I love to grate on his nerves.

I'm not one of those Victors who is shaky and scarred for life. I'm one of the tough ones. I'm the kind of Victor in whom Panem can take pride.

So I'm just going to keep enjoying my life of splendor, and taking what I want, thank you very much.

* * *

 **Adalee Verona, 35, Capitol Female**

 **Victor of the 78th Hunger Games**

* * *

I have the best husband in the world.

Armando is waiting by the door when I get home. It's late; President Crimson claims that tea tastes better after midnight. I think he just likes to make the atmosphere of our meetings spookier.

Armando ushers me inside. I run into his outstretched arms. He picks me up and spins me around. "How'd it go?" he asks in a whispered tone; the girls are asleep.

"Ugh. You know that man gives me the creeps." Armando nods.

"But I love the new Head Gamemaker!" I add. "I know, I know, it's not exactly the most noble profession, but she's really sweet. She's a mother too. I think she'll have some sympathy on those poor kids this year."

"I don't think Crimson will allow that," Armando says bitterly.

"I suppose not."

"I hate that these Games have such an influence on our lives. When I first met you, you were so scarred, you refused to go out with me, because you thought you didn't deserve love."

I swallow anxiously, suppressing a shudder with difficulty. The years following my Hunger Games victory were the were the worst ones of my life. I hate it when Armando tries to bring them up.

"But then a certain chef I met at a banquet convinced me otherwise," I remind him. "And it's a good thing I married you," I tease, "because the food has yet to disappoint."

"And then we had three kids," Armando continues, "Three beautiful daughters. And now Amilyn is only three years away from Reaping age."

There is nothing to say, so I simply nod.

"How were the other Victors?" Armando asks in a lighter tone, trying to uplift the somber mood.

I sigh. "Pretty much the same as always. Elita and Damian were ... Elita and Damian." Armando chuckles. "As for Brielle ... the poor girl is still struggling a lot. I think I'll go visit her tomorrow. Maybe I'll bring Anniella along. She can make anyone smile."

"Good idea, honey."

And with that, we tiptoe off to bed in unison, careful not to wake our three little sleeping angels.

As I lie in bed I try to ignore the nagging thought that has plagued me since Amilyn's birth.

She could be Reaped. She could be forced to suffer the physical and mental anguish that all tributes endure.

 _She could die._ In just three years, my daughter will be eligible to be randomly assigned a death sentence.

I cheated death. I made it out of the Games alive.

My daughter might not be quite so lucky.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Please continue to submit your tributes, as I don't have nearly enough submissions yet. The deadline is still the end of June 1st as of now, although I might extend it if I still don't receive enough submissions.**

 **I can't wait to meet your tributes! Happy submitting! :D**

 **Also, please check out _Vermillion Shorelines_ , an SYOT by Paradigm of Writing! Paradigm is a fantastic writer, and it is shaping up to be a really great story. I have already submitted a tribute, and I highly recommend you do the same! :)**

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 **And now some questions for my dear reviewers:**

 **1) What did you think of the four Capitol Victors introduced in this chapter? Did you have a favorite? Least favorite?**

 **2) Which of these Victors do you think should be mentors this year for the Capitol tributes in the 95th Hunger Games?**


	3. Trying to Fit

_"Maybe it's wrong-footed trying to fit people into the world, rather than trying to make the world a better place for people."_

 **\- Paul McHugh**

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 **Tiberius Duncan, 18, District Two Male**

 **Victor of the 94th Hunger Games**

* * *

As the newest Hunger Games Victor, I feel a lot of pressure to fit in. Other than Ayla, who was my mentor in the Games, none of the Victors has really made much of an effort to get to know me. Even Caden - the only District Two Victor besides Ayla and myself - rarely speaks to me. He always seems to be busy when I try to spend time with him.

I feel a bit left out of the Victor cliques, and, to be honest, I desperately want to be popular. I always have, and I probably always will. That's one of the reasons that I Volunteered for the Games in the first place. I wanted the respect and love of the people of Panem. I wanted to be a part of the elusive and exclusive Victors' club.

And I won. I did it. I made it out of the Games alive. So why do I still feel left out of the club? This always seems to happen to me. Growing up, I was always one of the smartest students in school and one of the best trainees at the Training Academy, so why did no one want to be my friend?

Well, that's why I'm throwing a little pre-reaping dinner party; when they come to my house and get to know me a bit better, I'm sure we will all become the best of friends. All of the Victors since President Crimson reinstated the Games are invited to the party. I know that they're going to enjoy it. By the end, they'll all be singing my praises. I'll finally be a part of the clique.

The doorbell rings. This must be Ayla and Caden; I asked them to get here early to help me set up for the party.

I pull open the oak front door. Ayla stands before me, alone, and holding a pie in her hands. " Hi, Tiberius. I brought dessert," she says simply.

"Thank you, Ayla," I reply. "Come on in." She automatically moves into the living room and sits on the leather couch. I try not to flinch. I did not yet invite her to sit down. It bothers me when people do things in my house before receiving express permission.

I sit down next to her, forcing myself not to be upset with her. "Where's Caden?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. Sometimes I get the strangest sense that Caden doesn't like me.

"He couldn't make it, honey. He's not feeling well, and he wants to be well rested for the Reapings tomorrow."

"Oh." I can feel my face falling. I quickly try to pretend that I don't care. "That's all right."

Ayla looks at me awkwardly. Her expression is a mixture of amusement and pity.

"It's a cherry pie," she says all of a sudden.

"Okay," I say. I don't know why she's telling me this; I can see the cherries peaking through the holes in the dough.

For a while, I just stare at her. Her eyes form a circuit around the room a few times as she takes in the marble floors, sparkling eggshell-colored walls, and intricate moldings.

"So, what's on your mind, Tiberius?" Ayla says slowly after a while.

"Can I be a mentor?" I blurt out, diving in without hesitation. I had meant to save this topic of conversation for later in the evening when everyone else was here. I was hoping that all of the other Victors would encourage Ayla to let me mentor. I couldn't ignore this perfect moment to bring it up, though. Ayla actually asked me what was on my mind, and this has been on mind for weeks already!

If I'm a mentor, my tribute will have to be friends with me, just like I had to be friends with Ayla, because she was my mentor. Caden and I aren't really friends yet, though. He mentored my district partner, Nyx. He mostly stayed away from me. Nyx was not really my friend either. She and the other Careers didn't let me join their alliance. Maybe that's why they lost the Games and I won; I was friendly, and they were rude, so they deserved to die. I didn't kill Nyx, but I killed two of the other Careers who made fun of me and said I couldn't join their alliance. They got what they deserved for being mean to me.

"Honey, I think Caden and I are going to be mentoring again this year. You only just got out of the Games a year ago. We think it might be a bit traumatizing for you to go back so soon."

"No, no, no!" This is not good. "Please Ayla? Please, please, please? Please can I do it? Please can I be a mentor? I really, really want to?" I am bouncing up and down on the couch to demonstrate my enthusiasm.

Ayla laughs a little. I don't understand how this is funny; mentoring is serious business. "Well, I'll have to talk it over with Caden for a while, Tiberius," she says. "Let's discuss that tomorrow morning, before the Reaping." She smiles at me, but I pout, folding my arms across my chest. I am not a child! Why won't she let me be a mentor?

Great, now I'm going to be in a bad mood during my own party. Everyone is going to think that I am not a good host, and then they definitely won't want to be my friends!

"Come on, Tiberius, do you need help setting up for the party?"

"Yes," I say reluctantly. She gets up from the couch and starts moving toward the kitchen - again, uninvited! I follow, trying to coerce my anger to abate. I take a deep breath. I can't be mad at Ayla during the party. Parties are about having fun and making friends. The other Victors have to see me having fun and making people laugh, so that they'll want to be my friends.

The familiar sound of the doorbell jolts me from the kitchen. I sprint across the living room and into the foyer, yanking the door open. I gasp. I didn't expect Neo to be the first guest. I'm a little starstruck. "It's Neo Thrin from District Three!" I yell, so that Ayla in the kitchen can here me. I think this is very considerate of me, as now she knows who is at the door. "The youngest ever Victor of the Hunger Games!" Neo won at age thirteen. He lost all of his arms and legs in the process. They were replaced with prosthetics, which he struggles to control, especially the legs.

"Why do you have so many damn steps on the way up to this place?" he demands. He's panting heavily. Oh no. I didn't think of this. Of course stairs are difficult for Neo with his two prosthetic legs! _How could you be so stupid, Tiberius? Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

"I am so sorry Neo." He mutters something that I cannot make out, so I continue with the instructions. "Please come in and sit on the leather couch or the velvet couch. You may sit on whichever one you prefer. You may also sit on a chair if you so desire. You may enter the foyer, the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom. Please don't enter any rooms which you are not authorized to enter. Thank you, and enjoy the festivities."

I step aside so that he can enter. His every step requires an enormous effort. I count three full minutes before he reaches the velvet couch and collapses into it, breathing heavily. Ayla brings him a glass of water.

Ayla and Neo are now chatting away, but before I can join them, the bell rings again. The next guest has arrived!

It's Charlican Basswood from District Seven. He is standing next to a stout man with red hair and a matching beard.

He brought a someone with him. When I invited him did I say he could bring someone with him? No. And yet, here they are. Two people standing at my doorstep, only one of whom was invited.

I choose my words carefully. I sense that announcing Neo's presence loudly was the wrong thing to do. I don't want to make that mistake again. "Hello Charlican," I say politely. "It is very nice to see you. I hope you are having a lovely evening." I don't want to start a fight or anything, but I inject some ice into my tone; it was awfully rude of him to bring someone along without asking me first.

"For the last time, Tiberius, you can call me Charlie. Everyone does." He laughs and reaches forward to clap me on the back. I flinch at the contact. "Oh," he says. "I almost forgot to introduce you. This is my boyfriend, Grayson. I hope it's okay that I brought him along. I wanted to introduce him to some of my Victor friends from the other districts."

"Are you a homosexual?" I blurt out. Wait, was that rude? _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

"Um ... yeah," Charlican says. "Why?"

"I was merely curious. Of course it is okay that you brought your boyfriend." This is a lie. It is not okay at all. He was not authorized to bring a guest. Lying sends a chill down my spine, but I decide that for the sake of maintaining my friendship with Charlican - and, hopefully, becoming friends with Grayson as well - the lie was warranted. Ushering them inside, I quickly go over the rules of the party. "Please come in and sit on the leather couch or the velvet couch. You may sit on whichever one you prefer. You may also sit on a chair if you so desire. You may enter the foyer, the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom. Please do not enter any rooms which you are not authorized to enter. Thank you, and enjoy the festivities."

Charlie and Grayson look at each other for a second, smirking. They must be thinking of something funny that happened before they got here.

Ayla bound forward and wraps Charlie in a tight hug. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Grayson!" I hear her say, once she has finally released Charlie. "I've heard so much about you . Oh, I can't wait until Adalee arrives. She's going to be so jealous that I met you first!"

Ayla, Charlie, and Adalee were the first three Victors of President Crimson's reinstated Hunger Games. I think the three of them are best friends. This is one of the Victor cliques I've been talking about. I wish I could be best friends with the Victors right around my year, but Brielle Darling from the Capitol, who won the year before me, is just so awkward. It's so hard to keep up a conversation with that girl! I've never met someone like that before.

I like Luminessa Clay from District Four a lot. She won two years before me. I think she would make a great best friend, but I hardly ever see her. For some reason, she does not like to come to these Victor get-togethers so often. I think she just really likes District Four and doesn't want to leave so often.

With any luck, Ayla and Caden will let me mentor this year, and my tribute will win and be a Victor like me. Then we can be best friends forever!

* * *

 **This is the final prologue chapter I will be posting. I hope you like Tiberius, the Victor of last year's Games. He's, um ... eccentric to say the least. I had tons of fun writing him! This chapter was mostly meant to be entertaining, and I hope you enjoyed it.**

 **Next chapter will kick off the Reapings, assuming I get enough tributes by the deadline of June 1st. Please continue to submit!**

 **I have some really amazing tributes so far, but I need a few more to start the story.**

 **Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you can! :D**


	4. Violence

_"Violence isn't always evil. What's evil is the infatuation with violence."_

 **\- Jim Morrison**

* * *

 **Abbalone Rybbon, 17, Capitol Female**

* * *

I wake up earlier than the rest of my family so that I don't have to eat breakfast with them. Silencing my alarm clock with my fist, I spring out of bed. I brush my teeth and pull on a white t-shirt and an old pair of pants. I never got the point of dressing up for Reaping Day. I know better than anyone that it's what's on the inside that counts. In the Hunger Games, skill and luck come together to select the Victor. Appearance has nothing to do with it.

My parents can hardly look at my ugly, scarred face without cringing; they think I ruin the image of their perfect, wealthy Capitol family. Well, guess what? The feeling is mutual. I cringe whenever I'm forced to look at them as well. It's a good thing that in a few hours, I'll never have to see into their smug, hateful faces again, nor will I have to endure the stares from strangers on the street: some are pitying, some aredisgusted. I don't know which ones I detest more.

In a few weeks, Rhiannon and Timmon Rybbon's "ugly, useless, unwanted daughter" will either be rich and famous beyond anyone's wildest dreams … or dead. If I'm dead, obviously I won't exactly be hanging out with my parents all that much. And if I win, they're going to have to admit that I'm perfectly capable of greatness. They won't look so smug anymore. That is, if I even let them visit me in the Victor's Village.

I tiptoe down the stairs, making as little noise as possible for fear of waking my parents an sister and being forced to talk to them. I walk into the kitchen and sit down at the table with two slices of whole wheat bread, some yogurt with granola, an apple, and a banana. Today is a big day, after all; I'm going to need a large, healthy breakfast.

Suddenly I hear the gentle _tap, tap, tap_ of my little sister, Ammaline, descending the staircase. I groan. What does it take for a girl to get a few minutes of peace and quiet around here? I shovel the remainder of the food into my mouth and bolt out of my chair, hoping to avoid the incessant little girl. Much to my dismay, however, she skips into the kitchen before I can escape. "Good morning, Abbalone, how are you?" Her voice is sugary sweet.

"I don't need your pity," I snap. What was Ammaline even doing up so early? I don't bother posing the question; she might take it as an invitation to have a long sisterly conversation with me. Grumbling angrily under my breath, I stomp up the stairs and storm into my room, slamming the door forcefully behind me.

* * *

 **Maximus Cadman, 18, Capitol Male**

* * *

"I don't know what you're talking about," he insists for the umpteenth time. Generally, I like to torture some answers and new names out of my victims before I kill them, but this guy either has no information or is simply not talking, even under torture. I decide that it's time to kill him and move on with my day. I have to get to the Reaping soon anyway.

I land a hard punch to my target's jaw. It's not as though he doesn't deserve it; he is suspected of treason and has managed to elude capture by the Capitol authorities.

The man falls unconscious, blood pouring out of his open mouth in a wonderful, luscious waterfall of deepest scarlet.

I grin, relishing in the pain I inflict on my targets, enjoying the sweet smell of his fresh blood. After a moment I decide that it's most prudent to create another wound. I strike my signature battle mace against his abdomen and watch the red fluid gush out of it. I give him time to bleed out, taking his pulse every so often. Once I have concluded that he is indeed dead, I easily lift up his limp body and toss it into the lake. I watch it slowly sink to the bottom, joining my other victims. I smile. It's nice, in a way, that he will have company; the bodies of all of the despicable traitors and criminals myself and my coworkers have taken down can enjoy the dark, treacherous depths of the lake together. They deserve nothing less.

I casually stroll down to the lake and dip my hands in to clean off the blood. I wipe my hands on my blue muscle shirt to dry them and notice that it is splattered with blood as well. I don't want Alyssa to see me like this; she is always so disappointed in me when she finds out I've murdered yet another human being. It's like she thinks these criminals matter. She's wrong of course. In fact, she and I are the only two people in the world who matter at all.

I don't have time to go home and change before the Reaping. With a shrug I pull off the shirt and toss it into the river.

Whistling and toting my battle mace over my bare shoulder, I set off on my way.

* * *

 **Abbalone Rybbon, 17, Capitol Female**

* * *

I stand amidst a bright rainbow of hair colors, endless sparkling glitter, intricately designed tattoos, and ostentatious Reaping outfits which consist of everything from a few feathers taped directly onto someone's skin to a literal bear skin - head still attached - behind which some teenager has disappeared. In other words, Capitol teenagers make me want to vomit.

I stare ahead at the stage. I refuse to make eyes contact with anyone, but I can feel their gazes upon my face. "Stop staring!" I hiss at the girl next to me. "It's not as though your artificial gray skin is gorgeous. I mean, seriously, why go through all of the trouble of having it dyed just so you look like a giant, deformed rock?"

"It was supposed to be silver," she sniffs with her chin in the air. "It didn't come out right."

I roll my eyes and continue to watch the stage, waiting for the Reaping to begin. Our escort is already on the stage, but many of the kids of Reaping age are still filing into their assigned areas at a leisurely pace, dawdling around and chattering away with friends. I click my tongue impatiently. How hard is it to prick your finger and go stand where you belong? Some people are so infuriatingly incompetent.

I close my eyes. Today is my day. Today is the day I've been training for. I glance over at the Capitol Victors seated on the stage, awaiting the Reaping. My eyes pass over pathetic Brielle Darling, annoying Adalee Verona, self-absorbed Elita Nirvana; they finally land on strong and hardened Damian Newly; he is the Capitol's first and only trained Career to win the Games. I cannot wait to be the second. I cannot wait to show my status-obsessed parents and whiny little sister that I am independently amazing. I can and will forge my own destiny. I don't need anyone's pity; I didn't need it when I was young and sick, and I certainly don't need it now that I am grown up and healed and my illness has left me physically scarred.

"Good morning, Capitol!" our escort howls to thunderous applause. "It is I, Sasha Cottica, and it is my great honor to represent our most beautiful nation as the escort to its most prestigious Capitol in what I'm sure will be the most exciting of Hunger Games in our Panem's noble history." I roll my eyes. She says something along these lines every year.

She shuts her eyes and holds a hand over heart respectfully in a grand display of patriotism. Many people in the audience follow suit. I roll my eyes again. Can this lady skip the theatrics and get on with the Reaping already?

Evidently, today really is my day, because my wish is granted, and Sasha says "And now for the Reaping." With a flourish of the hand, she thrusts her perfectly polished, pink painted nails into the first bowl and reaps the female tribute. "Maeva Zest! Maeva, Maeva, come on down!"

"I Volunteer as tribute!" I shout, before Maeva even makes herself visible. I run through the crowd and dash up the staircase to take my place next to Sasha.

"Wow! Isn't this just wonderful!" Sasha is ecstatic. She jumps up and down, pink curls flying in the wind. "It's been a couple of years since we've had a Volunteer."

She's right. The last Career tribute from the Capitol entered the Games two years ago. He didn't make it out. Instead, his weak little district partner, the weak and contemptible Brielle Darling, survived. She acted all shy and sweet to garner pity from Capitol sponsors. Just thinking about her puts a grimace on my face. Pity is disgusting and unnecessary. The fact that she all but begged for it makes her deplorable in my eyes.

"What's your name, lovely girl?" Sasha asks, looking right at me.

"Are you making fun of me?" I demand, fuming.

"What? N-no. Why would you think such a-"

"My name is Abbalone Rybbon," I state flatly into the microphone.

"No!" I'm surprised to hear my mother's voice. I find her in the crowd. Her eyes are brimming with tears and her hands are covering her mouth in shock. I feel a pang of guilt. Perhaps I should have told her that I was planning on Volunteering today. Then again, I did not realize she cared.

Sasha fidgets with her dress. "Yes. Well, I think we ought to move on then." She reaches into the male bowl and pulls out a slip of paper. "Maximus Cadman! Come on, Maximus! It's your time to shine!"

The boy who separates himself from the crowd of eighteen-year-olds is, quite simply, huge. Maximus towers over everyone around him. He is not wearing a shirt, and his abs are defined as though chiseled in stone. He flexes a bulging bicep at me menacingly from a distance. He clutches a mace tightly in one hand and loudly cracks the knuckles of the other. An unsettling grin is plastered upon his face and he slowly walks up to the stage. He shoves me over to the right and Sasha to the left.

"Hey, watch it!" I exclaim.

He raises the mace. "Oh you think that hurt, little girly? Did it hurt when I pushed you? Are you going to cry about it?"

I shoot him my fiercest death stare.

"Just wait until you feel the wrath of my mace." He says with a wild grin.

"Okay," Sasha says in a small voice. "Okay, no fighting in the Capitol, my l-lovely ch-ch-children?" It comes out sounding like a question. "That's one of the most important rules of the Hunger Games."

Maximus and I both scowl and each other and then at Sasha.

"Also," Sasha seems to be gathering all of her courage. She puffs up her chest. "Maximus, you are going to have to leave that behind," she points to the mace.

Maximus snorts. "That's not likely."

It happens in a flash. Maximus swings the mace at Sasha. Sasha ducks and Maximus's hit reaches the floor of the stage. A hand comes out of nowhere and slaps Maximus across the face.

It takes me a moment to realize that the hand belongs to Damian Newly. "I'll take that," he says between his teeth. He grabs the mace from the floor and calmly returns to his seat.

At this point, Sasha is hyperventilating. "Okay then." Her voice is weak and her words are rushed; she is plainly eager to get out of here. "This year's Capitol tributes are Maximus Cadman and … and … what was your name again, honey?"

"My name is Abbalone Rybbon. And don't you dare call me 'honey' again." I glare at her, but she does not seem to notice. In fact, she inches closer and closer to me, keen to distance herself from Maximus. I already hate Maximus. He's selfish, attention-seeking, and downright creepy.

"Yes, well, happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be in your favor. I mean, ever in your favor. Whatever. "

And with that, she thrusts the microphone into my hand, and sprints off the stage as fast as her high heels will allow.

* * *

 **Maximus Cadman, 18, Capitol Male**

* * *

I sit with an arm around my girlfriend, Alyssa. I can tell that she's holding back sobs.

"It's okay, sweetie. You can cry. I know you're going to miss me."

She shakes her head. "It's not that. Well, I mean, yes of course I'm going to miss you. But it's more than that."

"What else could you possible be upset about? You don't think I could lose, do you? You don't have to worry about that, sweetheart. It's not possible. I'm an expert."

She sighs. "Don't you get it? I don't want you to be an expert! The Hunger Games bring out the worst in people. And I love you, Maximus, but I don't very much like your worst self. I thought you were moving past all the violence! But then what you pulled at the Reaping today … what was that all about? Attacking your escort?"

For a second I consider telling Alyssa that I killed a man today, but I decide against it. I don't want to amplify her anger on our last visit before the Games.

"I'm sorry, Alyssa. I wasn't really going to hurt her. It was a show … for the sponsors. I wanted to stand out right off the bat." This is not true. From the tips of my fingertips to the core of my being, I wish I _had_ hurt Sasha. She annoyed me, and she tried to boss me around. She certainly did not deserve to come out of that interaction unscathed. But for some reason I don't think Alyssa will see it that way.

She purses her lips. I can tell she does not believe me. "Okay. Look at me, Maximus." I obey, staring into the clear blue eyes that are my one and only weakness. "When you are in the Arena, please try to be your best self. Be the person that you are when you're with me. Be a good man."

Her lips brush mine for the briefest instant, and then she is gone.

I can't be the person that Alyssa wants me to be. I have to kill. I have to take pleasure in every kill and taste the victory with every swipe of my fist, every swing of my mace. I have to delight in the thrill of the kill as I have every time time so far. I have to play the Games my way. My way is the only way to make it back to Alyssa alive.

I expect Alyssa to be my only visitor. I am therefore caught off guard when someone else enters the room after her.

"Um … hi," my brother says awkwardly.

"Ethan. I didn't expect you to come say goodbye to me."

"Yeah, well, I guess you were wrong, weren't you?" He clears his throat. "Anyway, you're my brother. My big brother. You take care of me. Remember when you, um, _took care_ of that kid who bullied me? I mean, don't get me wrong, I disagreed with your methods … but I appreciate the sentiment. And like I said, you're my brother. We're family. So that means that I love you despite all that you've done."

"I take it our parents don't share the same view?"

He shakes his head, avoiding eye contact.

Tentatively, I hold out a hand. He shakes it firmly.

"Thank you for visiting me, Ethan. I appreciate it."

He nods once.

We stand there awkwardly for a while, then I tell him to leave and he obliges.

Frankly, I don't have time to be distracted by my little brother. I have a lot of planning to do; so far, I've killed nine people, including the guy from today. I'd like to bring it up to an even twenty, which means that I have to take eleven lives in the Arena. To add some creativity to the project, I think I'll make each kill a different way. Let's think: Obviously I'll use my mace on one tribute. I'll get someone else with a scythe, my second favorite weapon. Then I'll probably snap another tribute's neck, and choke yet another tribute to death. Maybe I'll even slip someone a poisoned berry or something? It won't be as bloody as the other deaths, but I'm confident that I'll still find a way to make it exciting.

I can feel the familiar malevolent smile forcing my lips apart. The Hunger Games are certainly going to be fun. And I would say that the odds are most definitely in my favor.

* * *

 **And the Reapings have** **officially begun! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of Abbalone and Maximus! This is the format I'm going to follow for all of the Reapings: A short intro for each tribute, then the actual Reaping from one tribute's perspective and the goodbyes from the other tribute's perspective.**

 **I was debating if I should put the Capitol Reaping first or last. I decided that there was no way that the Capitol would schedule its own Reaping after all of the outer districts, so I put it first. District One is up next xD**

 **There are still a few empty spots in the SYOT. The open spots and the tribute form are on my profile. I really want to bring in some new submitters! So if you haven't submitted yet, please do so! I have decided that the submission limit per author will be two. So if you've already submitted one tribute, feel free to submit another :D**


	5. Confidence

_"My confidence comes from the daily grind - training my butt off day in and day out."_

 **\- Hope Solo**

* * *

 **Rhodochrosite "Rhoda" Angle, 18, District One Female**

* * *

"Rhodochrosite Angle," Aurelian says in his familiar low grumble. After all of these years, the sound of his speech still ignites a shiver in my spine; it reminds me of a sharpened knife scraping against concrete.

" _Rhoda_ ," I remind him.

He ignores me.

"Months ago, you were chosen to represent our district in the Hunger Games. Today is the day you Volunteer to do just that. I hope you make us proud." Aurelian holds out his hand and I shake it. His grip is firm, and his steely gray eyes grant me his best intense stare.

Most of the other trainees in the Academy clap politely, but a few girls my age give me dirty, jealous looks.

At the time, when Aurelian and the other trainers were still selecting their tribute, I didn't care all that much whether or not I was chosen. I knew that I was the best in the Academy, and I didn't need anyone else's validation. But now that I have been chosen, I need to win. I need to prove that they chose wisely. I need to show the world what Aurelian and I already know: I am the strongest, fastest, and cleverest tribute in the Academy. Likewise, I will be the strongest, fastest, and cleverest tribute in the Arena.

I am infinitely better than my brother, Chrysoberyl who perished at the hands of the boy from Ten. Chrys should have known better than to Volunteer. Unlike me, he he never had what it takes to win.

I wait for everyone to clear out of the Training Center. Some people congratulate me on their way out, others pass by me wordlessly. One girl shoves me aside in anger.

Once everyone has filed out, leaving me alone in the Center, I jog over to the weapons wall and grab my cookie sheet. I pull out a few dummies on which to practice, and spread them throughout the room.

Channeling tremendous force, I bang the cookie sheet on one dummy's head. It lands on the floor with a thud. I use the sharp edge to slice into another one's abdomen. I aim a roundhouse kick at a third dummy and watch it crumble to the ground. I go back to the second one with the abdomen cut, and I punch it in the neck for good measure. My eyes follow its descent to the wooden floor, where it joins its fellows.

Panting, I stagger over to the benches where people sometimes sit to watch the training. My throat burns desperately, demanding satiation. Where did I put my water bottle?

"Looking for this?" I jump at the sound of Tilver's voice.

He holds out the bottle, and I take it. For a moment, the only sounds are those of my rabid drinking; I allow the cool liquid to alleviate the pain in my throat. "Thanks. I didn't realize you were still here. I thought you left with the others."

"I think you've got it all wrong," Tilver says slyly, face twisting into a coy grin. "I'm not leaving you today. You're leaving me."

I punch his arm lightly. "Relax. It's only for a few weeks, and then I'll be back. We both know I can win. I'm better than any tribute District One has had in years. I'm much better than Chrys ever was."

Tilver shifts uncomfortably. He finds it odd that I'm still competing with my dead brother.

"Not to sound like a broken record," he says abruptly, changing the subject. "but in the highly probable event that there is no cookie sheet available to you in the Arena, what the heck do you plan on fighting with?"

Does he have to bring this up yet again? "I don't know," I shrug. "Something else."

"Well, why don't you try training with 'something else' then? Seeing as, you know, it's literally the day you plan to Volunteer for a fight to the death, and in ninety-four years of the Hunger Games, cookie sheets have yet to appear at the Cornucopia."

"I _have_ trained with other weapons, Tilver, but I prefer the cookie sheet, okay? I like to bake. I like cookie sheets. I chose it to be my weapon when I was all of five-years-old. Now will you please shut up and let me train? Like you said, today is the day I Volunteer."

"Yeah, speaking of which ... don't you want to spend your last day of freedom with ... I don't know ... maybe your family? You know, those human beings who look like you. The ones who will miss you terribly if you die in the fight to the death for which you're about to Volunteer. Ever hear of them?"

I roll my eyes. "I want to spend my last day getting in some extra training. It's the sensible thing to do."

"Well that's not a great use of your time. You've trained enough. In fact, you've spent a pretty significant chunk of your life in this very building."

"Do you have to criticize everything I do?"

Tilver grins. "What are best friends for?"

Dissolving into laughter, I drop the cookie sheet and wrap my arms around him. "I'm really going to miss you Tilver Hartson."

"I'm going to miss you too, Rhoda Angle."

* * *

 **Quest Giroux, 17, District One Male**

* * *

"Eat your pancakes, Mom." I advise her brightly. "You'll need your energy today to cheer for me at the Reaping."

She shakes her head, smiling. "Do you really want me to cheer for you?"

"Well, yeah, of course. I figured that you, and Laughter would start it off, and then the rest of the crowd would join in."

In my head, I can already hear the collective voices of District One reverberating throughout the District Square. _Quest! Quest! Quest! We love you, Quest! We're all rooting for your victory! Quest! Quest! Quest! Quest!_ They stare at me with adoring eyes. I wave at them to demonstrate that the affection is mutual. _Quest! Quest!_ _Quest!_

"You're wearing your glasses," Mom comments, bursting the delicate bubble of my fantasy into a soapy heap of the present.

I nod and push them up my nose. "My contacts were hurting my eyes."

She raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"No." I can't lie to her, grinning sheepishly I can feel my cheeks reddening with embarrassment. "I wanted to look good for the sponsors." I regain my confidence as quickly as I had lost it. "I look hot in glasses." I flash her my cocky grin, and she laughs. I'm going to miss Mom's laugh; it's a soft, tinkling sound, like the clanging of bells knocked together by the wind.

"You always look good, Quest," she says jovially. "You're the most handsome boy in the district."

She spears a fluffy brown chunk of pancake with her fork and drops it into her mouth.

When I win, she and I will have a better life. We'll live in an extravagant mansion in the Victor's Village complete with smooth silk curtains and plush carpets to sink our toes into and enough room to host parties for all of my loyal friends and dedicated fans.

When I win the Hunger Games, Mom and I will leave my drunken wastrel of a father behind and live out the rest of our days in blissful serenity. He and every bully who ever said I was not a real man will eat their words when I leave the Hunger Games, triumphant and prepared for a life of opulence and glory. My father and everyone else will soon see that being gay doesn't make me less of a man. It only makes me more ... well, more me: Quest Giroux, the fierce and fabulous.

I recognize the clunking sound of his heavy footsteps, and my face automatically contorts into a grimace.

"Quest," Mom whispers. "Stop with that look. It's rude."

I am torn between two desires: pleasing Mom and offending Dad. I choose the former, and allow my face to resume it's normal formation.

"Good morning, Health," says Mom, when her husband sets foot in the kitchen.

"Yes it is," he grunts, taking his seat at the head of the table. "The good for nothing, queer, burdensome accident you call our son might just prove he's not entirely worthless."

After seventeen years, it still stings to hear my father speak to me this way. I keep my face even, refusing to show him that he has offended me.

I stand up abruptly. "I think I'm going to go over to Laughter's house."

"Have a good time, honey," Mom says with a kind smile.

Upon exiting my house, I stroll down the streets of District One like I own the place, nodding my head in recognition of people I know and winking at the hot guys whose paths I cross. I always play confident Quest when walking the streets of the district. It's important that people see me with this persona.

When I arrive at my friend Laughter's house, the door swings open before I even have a chance to knock.

"Quest!" Laughter is positively beaming.

"Yes, it's me," I say, leaning casually against the brick wall. "The one and only Quest Giroux." I remove my hand from the wall and sweep it forward as I bow dramatically.

"Come in! Come in!"

I can't help but smile. Laughter's enthusiasm is infectious.

"So, today's the day!" Laughter exclaims once he and I are seated in his living room, and I'm chewing a freshly baked sugar cookie.

"That is correct," I say with a confident nod and my usual cocky grin. It's so easy to be confident Quest around Laughter, because Laughter is just so supportive of his friends that it inspires confidence. "I hope you've been saving your voice. You have a lot of cheering to do today.

"Of course! I've been practicing. How does this sound: ' _Woohoo! Go Quest! That's my best friend up there!'_ "

"That's wonderful. I'd also appreciate a bit of good old fashioned ' _Quest! Quest! Quest! Quest!'_ "

"Noted. So, do you have a district token yet?"

I nod and hold up my wrist to show him my token: the rainbow pride bracelet Mom gave me when I first came out as gay. I rarely take it off.

"Nice," Laughter says, serious for once, nodding his approval. "Good choice."

"Thanks. My mom thought so too."

"Hey, quick question. If you die, can I have your hot pink blazer? I've always been a bit jealous of it."

I shake from the back of my throat to the pit of my stomach. I can feel my distinctive, loud chortle coming out. "HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!"

Laughter definitely lives up to his name; he always knows how to crack me up.

* * *

 **Rhodochrosite "Rhoda" Angle, 18, District One Female**

* * *

I feel a pinch when my finger is pricked, but I can more than handle it. I can handle the Hunger Games. I can handle anything.

I spot Aurelian up on stage with Topaz Cadenza, District One's other Victor. Aurelian is icy, gruff, and emotionless. He's not the kind of person with whom one can sustain a real friendship, but he is an excellent trainer: tough and detached, he doesn't care about our personalities or feelings. He only cares about forging us into Victors.

As for Topaz, he has rarely spoken since his Games. I observe him on the stage. He is seated next to Aurelian, and the contrast between them could not be more stark. Aurelian is still as a rock, while Topaz trembles violently, like a twelve-year-old from an outer district who fears he might be Reaped..

When I'm a Victor, I won't be like either of them. Of course, I'll be strong, unlike Topaz. But unlike Aurelian, I won't be completely closed off and cold. I'll be nothing more or less than Rhoda Angle: the greatest Victor that District One has ever seen.

"Ladies and gentlemen of District One! Welcome to the Reaping for the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games. My name is Darius Hale and I can't wait to get started." He has a loud, goofy sort of voice, the kind I envision belonging to a stuffed dog.

"Let's start with the males today, ladies and gentlemen." A hand covered in a thick white glove reaches into the boys' Reaping bowl and pulls out a slip of paper.

"Glitz Fairbank! Where are you, Glitz?" A boy from the fifteen-year-old section steps away from the crowd, but does not walk up to the stage; he knows he is safe. This is District One after all.

"Never fear," booms a thunderous voice, and I watch my fellow District One Career strut up to the stage, "because Quest is here. No need to thank me, Glitz, buddy. I'm happy to do it."

All of a sudden, a chorus of screeching breaks out "Yeah Quest!"

"Woohoo!"

"We love you Quest!"

"That's my best friend up there!" Screeches a boy from the eighteen-year-old section.

"That's my son!" Shrieks a woman's voice from somewhere. "The most handsome boy and strongest tribute in Panem is my son!"

I would be humiliated if my mother did anything like that, but Quest seems to relish in it. He subtly flashes her a thumbs up.

The eighteen-year-old boy and the woman start chanting " _Quest! Quest! Quest! Quest!_ " A few more people join the chant, but the sound of my district partners name becomes increasingly blurred, as the chanters are not in synch.

"Thank you, friends of Quest," Darius says loudly into the microphone, enunciating each syllable. His excited tone has been replaced by one of irritation. It sounds unnatural when paired with his goofy stuffed animal voice. "That will be enough."

But apparently, it's not enough for Quest. He holds out his hand and waves his fingers expectantly. With an exasperated sigh, Darius hands him the microphone. "I'm Quest Giroux, and I Volunteer as tribute! I'm sure you're all pleased to meet me. A little bit about me-"

Darius cuts him off. "Now, now, Quest, I applaud your enthusiasm, but there will be plenty of time to talk about yourself during your interview."

Quest just winks at the audience and runs his fingers through his brown hair. He is wearing a button down shirt of pale lilac underneath a suit jacket. A pair of square glasses rests upon his nose behind which two blue-gray eyes dance in the light of the dazzling yellow sun, ablaze with thrill.

I have never actually met Quest before, but Aurelian told me his name a few weeks ago.

Quest and I each trained at one of the two biggest Academies in District One. Our Academies are rivals in a way, but they cooperate. Every year, one selects the male tribute for the Games and the other selects the female tribute. Next year, my Academy will send the male. I'm glad Tilver will be too old by then; just like Chrys, he's not as skilled as me. He would not make it out alive.

"Goldine Fraze!" says Darius. Unlike Glitz, Goldine doesn't even bother to show herself.

"I Volunteer as tribute!" I announce, thrusting my body forward. My feet move in a whirlwind of speed as I sprint up the stairs to the stage. I need to get there immediately, in case anyone is planning to steal my spot as Volunteer. "My name is Rhodochrosite Angle, but you can call me Rhoda." I announce into the microphone, words tumbling out as quickly as I can formulate them. "No, you _should_ call me Rhoda. I will win the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games."

"Very nice to meet you, Rhodochrosite. Well, District One-"

"Don't call me Rhodochrosite," I snap. "I just told you that I go by Rhoda."

"Okay then," Darius says between his teeth, enunciating his syllables irritably as he seems to do when he is annoyed. "As I was _saying_. District One, your tributes in this year's Hunger Games are Quest Giroux and _Rhoda_ Angle." He tosses me a look of disdain. "Happy Hunger Games, District One. And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

* * *

 **Quest Giroux, 17, District One Male**

* * *

I am seated in a wooden chair in the Justice Building. My mother, grandmother, and grandfather stand in a huddle around me, as though shielding me from the four ominously pristine, eggshell colored walls.

My father stands in the corner of the room, watching us intently but not making a sound. I'm impressed he even showed up.

"Why do you have to go to those awful Games, Questy?" asks Grandma. Her eyes are brimming with tears.

I have to be strong Quest for my family right now. Not the physically adept, tough Quest character I play during training; strong Quest exudes an inner strength when everyone else lacks it.

"Don't worry, Grandma. I'll be home in no time. Hey, here's an idea: while I'm gone, make a whole bunch of cakes for me to eat when I get back. It'll pass the time. Plus, I really like cake."

Grandma begins to make short, hiccupy sounds. I'm not sure if she's laughing or crying.

"Do us proud, son," Grandpa says, patting me on the shoulder.

I stand up and Grandma engulfs me in a tight embrace before she and her husband exit the room. As they're walking away, Grandma's hiccup-like sounds begin again. I conclude that they are indeed sobs and not chuckles.

When Grandma and Grandpa have left, I automatically move my gaze to the left. Dad and I make eye contact for a split second. He nods curtly and follows his parents out of the Justice Building, leaving me alone with Mom.

"Don't worry, Mom. I'll make you proud. And when I win we can leave Dad and move into the Victor's Village. You'll finally have the life you deserve."

She strokes my cheek with her thumb. Her touch is soft and delicate, like a feather.

"Quest, you make me proud every day. I love you so, so much."

"I love you too, Mom," I say, allowing her arms to wrap me in their warm, comforting embrace.

"I should probably go now and give you some time with your friends."

"Are you kidding me, Mom? You're the best friend I've ever had."

Mom kisses the top of my head. Her smile is bright, but her chocolate brown eyes glisten with tears. She flutters her eyelids, trying to blink away the excess liquid before I notice. "Goodbye, Quest. I know you'll be back soon."

My friend Beauty comes in when Mom leaves. As she walks toward me, she flips her long blond hair, and it flies behind her in a cascade of golden glory. I'm secretly a bit jealous of her hair; it attracts so much attention that my own cropped hair has trouble garnering.

"I came to say good luck to you Quest. I really hope you win." She does not sound too enthusiastic; I can't tell if she is being genuine. Beauty is hard to read. "And if you do win, maybe you can be my mentor next year."

"Yeah, maybe … if you even get chosen to Volunteer."

Beauty rolls her eyes. "Oh I'm going to get chosen." She pauses for a second. Then her eyes narrow mysteriously. "I'll make sure of that."

I roll my eyes. "Good luck with that."

"Anyway, I think it's my brother's turn to come in, and I have other places to be. So … bye Quest. I hope you don't die or anything." With a final wave, Beauty exits to be replaced by her twin brother, Strength.

I leap out of my seat. "Strength! My man! What is up around here?"

"I should be asking you that," says Strength. "You're the one who just Volunteers for the Games. He casually ruffles his sleek blond hair. He and Beauty probably spend their nights together coming up with ways to move their hair attractively. "Speaking of which, you've been talking me up to the trainers, right? Because I need a bit of sweet talking from you if I'm going to be chosen to Volunteer next year. Of course, if you win, you'll have a lot more credibility, and then you'll basically be able to push me straight through."

"Yeah, I've spoken to them," I lie, "they're … considering it." I ignore the last part of his comment about me pushing him "straight through" if I win this year.

I'm not going to recommend Strength as District One's tribute. Despite what his name may indicate, he does not have what it takes to win the Games. Beauty might, but Strength does not.

"Really? They are? Wow, that's so amazing. Thanks, Quest. You're a great friend. Let's stop talking about me, though. Today is all about you! How are you feeling? Excited? Nervous?"

"Me? Nervous? Nah," I lie again. "I have nothing to be nervous about. I'm practically shoo-in for Victor."

"All right, that's good to hear. I think it's Laughter's turn now." Strength shows his affection with a high-five. He then pivots and walks out of the Justice Building.

"Nice display up there," says Laughter with a grin, as he walks through the door. "I was really looking forward to hearing a little bit about you before the escort so rudely interrupted."

I can feel my booming guffaw emerging once more. "HA HA HA HA HA!"

I clutch a stitch in my side. Once my laughter has died down, I say, "Unfortunately, you will just have to wait until my interview to learn a little bit about me."

"I look forward to it." He is smiling, as usual. "So did you appreciate the cheering?"

"It was very much appreciated. You and Mom were really great. I kind of wish more people had joined in, though. I had imagined the whole district calling my name with the zeal of a thousand crackling fires."

"To be honest, I have no idea what that means. But don't be disappointed. Strength and Beauty joined in," he reminds me. "And a few other people too. Don't worry, Quest. When you win the Games, all of Panem will cheer for you in unison."

A Peacekeeper pokes his head into the room, interrupting us. "You have one minute."

When the Peacekeeper leaves us alone again, Laughter says, "I guess that's my cue to skedaddle." He cocks his head towards the door. "See you, Quest."

"Yeah. See you." I throw my arms around his broad shoulders. I hug him tightly and then release him. "I'll walk you to the door."

I turn the handle and pull open the door. Laughter and I both gasp audibly.

My father stands in front of me, staring directly into my eyes.

Laughter clears his throat. "This seems like the type of thing I should leave for." He steps away slowly until he fades from view.

I still have one hand on the doorknob.

His hands are in his pocket. His eyes bore into mine, unflinching.

"Um … hi," I say awkwardly.

I wait for him to speak.

His lips move up and down, but they fail to form audible words. His face is angry as ever, but perhaps his eyes are a bit softened? Or is it just my imagination? Suddenly, he lifts a hand out of his pocket and places it on my shoulder. He mutters something that sounds a bit like "my son," but I can't quite make it out. Then, wordlessly, he breaks eye contact and glides away.

For longer than I would like to admit, my eyes remain glued to the back of his head, as I watch the father that I hate slip away from me.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed the District One Reaping! Please leave a review, and let me know what you thought of Rhoda and Quest.**

 **Speaking of District One, I have joined a 24 tribute/24 author collaboration called _The 11th Hunger Games: Cavernous Calamity._ My tribute is Serenade Labelle, the District One Female. Please go check it out if you get a chance. If you are interested, you can find it under my Favorite Stories on my Profile.**

 **Now that I have all 26 tributes, I am working on a tribute blog. It will be posted along with the next chapter, which will be the District Two Reaping :)**


	6. Insecure People

_"Insecure people only eclipse your sun, because they're jealous of your daylight and tired of their dark, starless nights."_

 **\- Shannon L. Adler**

 **Damon Millers, 16, District Two Male**

* * *

I lie on my back in a grassy field, hands underneath my head. The blades of grass brush up against me, tickling my skin. I stare up at the sky, enjoying the glimmers of sun peeking out from behind the white masses of fluffy cloud.

I discovered this place when I was six, after the incident. I come here to feel entirely at peace. It might be the only place in District Two that is entirely untouched by the harshness of peacekeepers and masonry and the violence of Hunger Games training.

This place is mine. I found it when I was wandering the district after the incident. I was desperate for serenity and light which the field most generously provided. At the time, I didn't realize how far I had wandered; all I cared about was putting as much distance as possible between myself and the darkness, of which my own home was a painful reminder. Later on, when I retraced my steps, I calculated that it's roughly six miles from my house.

The field is detached from all of the residential areas in Two as well as the other traces of civilization which I seek to escape when I come here. I don't mind the walk at all; my years of training have provided me with sufficient stamina to endure it.

I have yet to meet another human soul here, and I haven't told anyone about it. Anyone except …

"Back again, Damon?" I recognize gruff, harsh voice of my older brother, Blake.

"Yeah," I try to keep my tone casual. I don't want him to know that the thought of Volunteering brings about trembles of fear throughout my body. "I'm just enjoying the sunlight." _On my last day of freedom_ , I add in my head.

"The sunlight is nice and all," Blake concedes, lying down next to me, but staring at me rather than the vast, open sky, "but shouldn't you be spending a day like today training in the Academy?"

"Nah," I shrug, feigning the level of confidence I wish I possess. "I don't need anymore training. I'm good to go."

The truth is that I don't like to train. I avoid it whenever possible. The thought that I am literally being taught how to hurt other people - how to _murder_ actual human beings - is quite repulsive.

Blake is silent for a moment. I can still feel his eyes on the side of my face. Then he says, "I hope you're not still feeling sorry for yourself that you're Volunteering today. Half the boys in the district wish they were you." He gulps awkwardly. "Even I envy you a bit."

"Sorry," I mutter. "I guess I got lucky." My words are flat; for once I don't bother to inject them with false genuity or confidence.

"Dad's home. He took off from work today. By the time he woke up, you had already left the house, but he wants to see you before the Reaping. He's excited about today."

Of course he's excited. Today is the day my death sentence is written. He even took off from his _oh-so-important_ job as Head Peacekeeper to bid farewell to his son who's about to enter a death match. How kind of him.

"I don't want to see him, Blake." My tone is gentle but absolute.

"Okay," Blake concedes. "I'll leave you alone. But you should know that Dad and I both love you, Damon."

"I love you too, Blake. As for D-Dad … if he loves me, then he has a f-funny way of showing it."

Memories of the incident flash before my mind's eye. Darkness. Endless, eternal darkness. A shivering, crying little boy, desperate to escape, begging for liberation. Either no one hears him screaming, or no one cares. The blackness threatens to engulf him; it seeks to swallow him whole and never relinquish him from its grasp.

 _Me._ I'm the little boy.

I drag myself away from my traumatic recollections. Blake is gone now. I feel empty, as though someone tarnished my perfect morning in my perfect field with a reminder of my reality.

Suddenly, it is all too much for me to bear; the upcoming Games, the memories of the incident, my father and Blake … all of it builds up like a weight in my chest. My only comforts are the gentle rippling of the grass against my skin, the pure whiteness of the clouds starkly contrasted against the deep blue sky, and the bright rays of sunlight beating down upon me. But even they are not enough.

I can feel the liquid gathering in my eyes. I allow the tears to fall in individual hot, salty streams down my face. The clouds above becomes increasingly blurred. For some reason, it feels as though they will never come back into focus; order will never be restored.

* * *

 **Maricela Aguas, 18, District Two Female**

* * *

Marble lounges on my bed, watching me parade around my bedroom in various potential Reaping outfits. Her long, silky black hair cascades down her back. My bedroom light dances upon it, causing it shimmer as brilliantly as the morning sun. I am met with the familiar urge to run my fingers through it, but I hold myself back.

"You should definitely wear that one," Marble advises. "You look so cute in it."

I can feel my cheeks heating up at the word "cute." In an effort to conceal my blushing face from Marble's eyes, I twirl around in the dark maroon dress, allowing it to fly around me and flap against my muscular thighs.

Having settled on the maroon dress, I spring onto the bed, landing beside Marble.

"I'm so glad they picked you over that awful Tacity Gray," she says with a grin.

"I know, right? She can barely hit a target with a throwing knife."

Marble scoffs. "Forget that. I heard that she and her brother actually have to take out _tesserae_ , because their family's so poor. Can you believe that?"

"Wow," I shake my head. "That's really pathetic. Although I guess it explains her hideous sense of style."

"I don't think money's her biggest problem when it comes to clothing," Marble says loftily. "Because even poor girls can afford rags, and that would be a step up from her current wardrobe.

We both fall back onto my pillow, shaking uncontrollably with laughter.

"Speaking of pathetic," I say, once the laughter has died down. "You'll never guess who my district partner is going to be."

"Who?" Marble asks, clapping her hands together eagerly.

"Damon Millers."

"Who's that?"

I wrinkle my nose. "You know, the one I nicknamed 'Baby-Boy?' He's that kid who's still scared of the dark at age sixteen. I've kind of known him my whole life, since my Dad runs the Peacekeeper Training Center, and his Dad is the Head Peacekeeper. Of course, I would never stoop so low as to associate with a person like that more than necessary … except maybe to lock him in a closet with the lights off every once in a while."

Marble giggles once more. I am reminded of birds chirping pleasantly as they soar freely through the air, "You're kidding!" Marble shrieks with a mixture of incredulity and delight. " _He's_ entering the Hunger Games? He won't last five minutes."

"Indeed he is," I affirm. "I guess that means one down, twenty-two to go."

Marble nods encouragingly.

I cease the opportunity to simply gaze at her gorgeous face. I've never been to District Four, but I'm guessing that Marble's sparkling blue eyes would put Four's clearest body of water to shame.

Can she tell what I'm thinking about? What if she can sense my attraction?

"Do you know Damon's brother, Blake?" I ask hurriedly, feigning a swoon. "He's our age. He's _so_ handsome." I flutter my eyelashes for dramatic effect. "I wish I could just grab him and slam my lips onto his."

Marble stares at me for a moment, pondering.

Did I gush over Blake a bit too much? Is it glaringly obvious that the only person I want to kiss is Marble?

"Yeah, I think I do know him," Marble says after a while. I breathe a sigh of relief. She's not onto me. "And you're right, he's really sexy. And strong for that matter. You're actually lucky that it's his wimpy little brother you'll be up against in the Arena and not Blake himself." She pauses for a second and then narrows her eyes at me. "But what would Nigel say if he heard you talking about another man like that?" She hits me playfully on the arm. "You bad, bad girl!"

I have to actively stop myself from cringing at the mention of Nigel's name. Nigel is my fake boyfriend. He is nothing to me but a bottomless pit of annoying questions and irritating remarks. It takes all my willpower to refrain from vomiting when he and I are in the same room. I won't break up with him, though. I need to have a boyfriend to maintain my social status … and to conceal the truth.

It pains me to lie to Marble about my relationship with Nigel, but I must do so anyway; she is one of the people whom I am most adamant about fooling. She can never find out the truth.

I do not answer her comment about Nigel. Something else that she said catches my attention. "You don't think I can handle myself against Blake Millers?" I blurt out anxiously.

Marble specifically mentioned that Blake is strong. Does that mean she thinks I'm weak? Or at least that I'm not as strong as he is?" I can feel my heart beating rapidly inside my chest. I can't have Marble thinking I'm weak. Do other people think I'm weak? Surely she'll be impressed with my strength and skill once I'm in the Games, and she sees me picking off tributes right and left. Surely, they'll all be impressed.

"No, of course not," she reassures me. "I know that you can handle yourself against anyone. I just meant that Blake would be competition for you, and Damon certainly won't."

No, Damon certainly won't be a threat to me in the Games.

"Maricela!" Marble shouts suddenly. "Look at the time! We have to get down to the Reaping."

"You're right!" I exclaim in alarm. I had lost track of time. "Let's go!"

Marble and I fly down the stairs and dash down the road toward the District Square, hurling insults at random passersby.

"Out of my way!" I yell at an elderly man, who leans heavily on a cane. I halt in my tracks for long enough to shove him aside with all of the force I can muster. "Don't you know who I am? Who do you think you are to block my path on a day like today?" In my view, age is no excuse for ignorance.

Marble grabs my hand. For a moment, I am consumed with the feeling of her long, nimble fingers laced through my own. "We don't have time to stop for a fight right now, Maricela," she chides gently. "After the Games you can spend all the time you want yelling at whomever you want: old people, babies, puppies … whatever makes you happy."

I don't have time to wonder whether or not she's being sarcastic, because, as usual, she's absolutely correct; the Reaping is about to begin, and there is no time to waste.

Marble and I continue at a sprint, until we arrive at the crowded District Square.

A little blond girl stands ahead of me on the line to prick our fingers before the Reaping can begin. She is dazed and distracted and not moving up on line; a large gap has formed between herself and the person in front of her.

"What are you standing around for?" I spit at her. "Move it!" I don't care if she's twelve and this is her first Reaping. She's old enough to know how lines work.

My eyes make contact with Marble's, and we roll them in tandem.

* * *

 **Damon Millers, 16, District Two Male**

* * *

It feels like a lifetime ago that I lay in my beloved field of grass, staring up at the fluffy, white clouds. My final moments of freedom have arrived. I might as well use them to make a new friend.

"Hi, I'm Damon," I say brightly to the boy standing next to my left as we wait for the Reaping to commence.

"Kurt," he replies stiffly.

"It's so nice to meet you, Kurt," I say with a smile that he does not return.

I decide to move on to the boy to my right, but before I even open my mouth, District Two's escort begins the Reaping ceremony.

"Welcome, welcome, District Two, to the Reaping ceremony for the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games! I am Lulu Fanny, and I feel so privileged to be District Two's escort for the Hunger Games." She pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at the corners of her eyes. Her opening remarks are met with thunderous applause. "Let's get on with the Reaping, then, so we can all meet our fabulous tributes for this year's Games." More cheering ensues. "We shall begin with the ladies." She reaches into the female bowl and pulls out a single slip of paper, from which she reads the name, "Elle Cambridge!"

A pretty, raven haired fourteen-year-old emerges from the pack. She takes slow, small, deliberate steps towards the stage, waiting for someone to step up and take her place.

"Get back in line, little girl!" snaps a harsh female voice. "You wouldn't last one day in the Hunger Games. I Volunteer as tribute!" A flash of auburn darts past me and ascends the staircase to meet the escort up on stage. "I'm Maricela Aguas."

"It is so nice to meet you, Maricela," Lulu says amiably. "I'm hope that we will become the very best of friends."

"Yeah, well, the feeling's not mutual," Maricela says icily. "I didn't exactly wake up this morning thinking that I'd just love to become 'the very best of friends' with a middle-aged woman who is completely fake from her cheery attitude to the wig atop her head all the way down to the tips of her artificial toenails."

Affronted, Lulu places a hand over her mouth in horror.

I am not surprised by Maricela's words. We have interacted rarely, but each time she has been cold at her best and downright cruel at her worst.

And she is the tribute that District Two will be rooting for. In the eyes of the people of Two, my role is mainly to provide her with a sentimental kill from her home district to make her more sympathetic to sponsors. That is, if I'm not already picked off by another Career at the Bloodbath.

Maricela was hand selected by the trainers at the Academy; I was chosen by lottery, like any Reaped tribute from an outer district. Each year on an alternating basis, the trainers select the best female or male student to Volunteer for the Games. The tribute Volunteer of the other gender is drawn at random from a box containing the names of all qualifying students between the ages of sixteen and eighteen.

"Kellan Yates!" Lulu announces as the male Reaped tribute.

I stand rooted to the spot, legs shaking and knees threatening to buckle beneath me.

I must Volunteer. If I don't, Blake and I will both be killed.

On the other hand, I will die in the Games anyway.

 _But Blake won't._

At least I can save one of us.

"I V-V-V-Volunteer as t-t-t-tribute," I stutter in a voice so weak, I am not sure if the boys standing around me can hear it, let alone the escort up on stage.

I trudge forward, forcing each step to follow the last. It feels as though I have aged a century by the time I finish climbing the stairs and reach the stage. I can feel my eyes welling up with tears and allow one to leak out before I begin to blink rapidly, forcing them away. I can't cry now. There will be time to cry later.

Now standing beside Lulu, I say "H-hi, I'm D-Damon. Damon M-Millers. It's really nice to meet you." I smile genuinely and hold out a hand for her to shake.

Lulu smiles warmly, taking my outstretched hand. I am conscious of the clamminess of my palms. "It's very nice to meet you too, Damon."

She turns back to the district at large. "District Two! I am _ever_ so pleased to announce that your tributes in this year's Hunger Games are Maricela Aguas and Damon Millers. Good luck, Maricela and Damon, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

The crowd breaks into another roaring round of applause.

I take the opportunity to step behind Lulu over to Maricela.

"Hi, M-Maricela," I stammer, with an attempt at a kind smile. I avoid her terrifying, steely gaze. My words tumble out quickly and awkwardly. "I know that we h-h-haven't exactly b-been the b-b-best of friends over the years, but I was hoping that m-maybe now that we're d-district partners, maybe we could be fr-"

She cuts me off. "If you think that I'm going to start being nice to you now that we're both entering the Hunger Games, then I don't think you know what the Hunger Games are, Baby-Boy. And don't you dare try to act all tough for sponsors once we hit the Capitol; don't think I didn't see you crying like the weak little baby you are. Now get away from me, and let me enjoy my adoring fans."

I chance a glance at Maricela. Her freckled face has arranged itself in a menacing scowl.

She blows a wavy strand of auburn hair away from her face and bares her teeth. She shoos me away with a gesture of the hand.

I obey her wish, crossing back over to Lulu's other side. I can feel the tears forming once again, and I don't bother to attempt to banish them. Maricela is absolutely right.

I am scared. I am weak. And pretty soon, I will be dead.

* * *

 **Maricela Aguas, 18, District Two Female**

* * *

Dad clutches me tightly. "I am so, so proud of you, sweetheart. I love you so much. Come home to us, okay?"

He releases me, and I nod. I fully intend to come home safely.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Mom rolls her eyes. "Goodbye, Maricela. Have a great time fighting to the death. Just remember that that's exactly what you signed up for. I hope you don't regret it." She pats me on the head. "Evan, can we get going already? I have a party to attend."

Her husband nods. "You're right, Regina," he says with a sniff. "I think now's a good time to bid our dear daughter farewell. If I look into her beautiful blue eyes for one more second, I may never find the courage to leave them behind." He kisses my cheek. "Goodbye, my dear Maricela."

Mom strokes my head once lightly. "Goobye, Maricela."

"See you, Maricela," says my brother Andres with a smile. "I hope you win … but it better not go to your head."

The three of them file out of the Justice Building.

Marble comes in behind them and flings her arms around me.

"I love you, Maricela Aguas," she says, beaming. "I am so happy that you're about to live out your dream."

I believe her. She is truly happy for me. She even truly loves me. Just not in the way that I need her to.

"Don't worry," she tells me, still smiling. "I won't take up too much of your goodbye time. I know you probably want to spend your last moments before you go to the Capitol with Nigel."

I shake my head. "Nigel and I ... already said goodbye," I invent. "So I'm all yours for now."

"That's great!" She releases me from our hug, and her eyes meet mine: blue on blue.

I am overwhelmed with the grief of leaving her behind without telling her the truth of my feelings, yet I am determined to veil them from her. My internal conflict weighs weighs me down. I begin to breathe heavily.

My father's words ring through my consciousness as I scan my best friend's face: If _I look into her beautiful blue eyes for one more second, I may never find the courage to leave them behind._

I exhale sharply, forcing myself to dismiss her from the room, while I still have the strength to do so. "It's true that Nigel's not coming," I say slowly. It feels good to tell Marble something true about Nigel for once, even something insignificant. "But I think you should go anyway, Marble. I need to be alone right now."

She cocks her head to the side, appraising me curiously. After a moment, she says, "Of course," and nods politely.

I grant myself one final embrace, inhaling the alluring scent of her floral perfume and savoring the soft texture of her smooth skin.

And then I let her go.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed the District Two Reaping! I hope you enjoyed. Leave a review to let me know what you thought of Damon and Maricela :)**

 **The link for the blog i** **s sweetstothesweet95. weebly/ tributes**

 **I'm posting the blog link here and on my profile. Just remove the spaces. Also, the website won't let you view all 26 tributes at once, so you'll have to click the "previous" button at the bottom of the page to see all of them.**

 **For the blog, if you did not give me a Faceclaim, I just chose one myself. I had to change of few of them that I did receive, if the Faceclaim was significantly older or younger than the tribute. I hope no one minds.**

 **District Three is up next! I'm having a lot of fun so far bringing all of these wonderful tributes tributes to life :D**


	7. Ready

_"All things are ready, if our mind be so."_

 **\- William Shakespeare**

* * *

 **Alexandra "Alex" Bishop, 17, District Three Female**

* * *

 _Push. Push. Push. Come on Alex! Push._

Years of hearing Jason bombard me with these words of encouragement have caused them to be permanently etched into my brain. I allow them to fill me up and provide with the fuel to keep training, despite the protests from my tired, aching limbs.

As I slam my fist into the punching bag over and over again, I can feel the sweat dribbling down my forehead and the back of neck.

I allow my self a moment of nostalgia, remembering the first time I came down here as a little girl. I complained that the basement is far too cold to act as my training space. Now, as I near the conclusion of my final training session, my body practically radiates heat.

 _Push. Push. Push._

With a final blow to the smooth brown leather, I decide to leave the punching bag alone. Instead, I pick up a spear, deciding to give it one final practice run before the Reaping begins. I allow my long, muscular arm to guide its path. I grin with satisfaction when it reaches its mark, landing squarely in the center of the targets Jason set up for my training.

"Slow down there, Alex. Now would not be a good time to pull something." I identify the voice as Jason's. My brother has joined me in the training room.

"I can't slow down, Jason," I remind him with a sly smile. "Slowing down is for people like you who have nothing to do all day."

Jason crosses the room and pulls the spear out of my hand. "I have plenty to do today. I have to spend some time with my baby sister."

"Your _'baby sister_ ' is about to win the Hunger Games."

"I know she is. I trained her."

"Okay, you can quit it with the third person?"

"Sorry. I'm just a little nervous."

That's sweet, but unnecessary. "Don't be nervous, Jason. Didn't you just say roughly three seconds ago that you know I'll win the Hunger Games?"

"Well, yeah," he concedes. "Okay, I'm mostly proud of you. You've trained so hard for this."

"Yeah," I grin coyly. "I know. I was the one doing the training, remember?"

Jason rolls his eyes. "Come on. Don't you want to hang out with me for a while? Me and Elicia?"

"Well I definitely want to see Elicia. You … not so much," I tease.

He laughs and playfully ruffles my black hair. I smooth it back into place. It's wet to the touch, soaked with my own sweat.

"Elicia's upstairs." Jason places a callused hand on my shoulder. "Let's go."

His hand still resting on my shoulder, we start moving towards the staircase. Together we walk up the stairs and out of the basement that he turned into a training room for me so many years ago.

When people first meet us, a lot of them think that Jason is my father rather than my brother, which is an understandable mistake, since the gap between our births lasted for decades. He's old enough to be my father. Case in point, his daughter, Elicia, is my age.

She stands at the top of the staircase, holding a out a glass of water and a shiny red apple, both of which I take from her gratefully.

Elicia, Jason, and I move into the living room of our grand mansion in the Victor's Village, in which my family has dwelled since Jason's Hunger Games victory long before my birth.

I throw myself down onto a paisley-patterned settee sofa, emitting a dramatic sigh to indicate my level of comfort. I take a bite of the apple. It crunches loudly between my teeth.

"Alex!" Jason scolds. He and Elicia are seated side by side on a leather couch across the room. " _How_ many times do I have to ask you not to sit on the expensive furniture when you're sweaty from training? And _how_ many times do I have to ask you not to eat in here?"

I shrug. "Apparently, you have to ask me at least one more time."

Elicia giggles girlishly.

Jason merely rolls his eyes, but does not make another comment about the furniture. I take another bite of the apple, and this time I deliberately chew on it even louder than before.

"Can you three keep it down?" snaps the voice of my mother. "I'm trying to work up here!"

Jason and I exchange looks of contempt. My mother, the so-called artist, has not touched a paintbrush in several months, but she is quick to claim that any noise we make it disrupting her work.

"SO WHERE'S HENRIETTA?" I bellow at Jason at the top of my voice for the sole purpose of aggravating Mother's irritation; I already know that Jason's wife went to buy some bread.

"ALEXANDRA BISHOP! IF I HEAR YOU SCREAMING IN THIS HOUSE ONE MORE TIME, YOU ARE GOING TO BE IN BIG TROUBLE, YOUNG LADY! BIG, BIG TROUBLE. MARK MY WORDS!"

I grin at the multiple layers of irony of her statement. Firstly, and most obviously, her yell was far louder than mind. Secondly, and most importantly, she knows full well that I plan on Volunteering for the Hunger Games today, so I'm not sure when she plans to get me in "big, big trouble."

* * *

 **Ryam Flash, 13, District Three Male**

* * *

Pexey, Evie, and I sit in the bedroom that Pexey and I share. I lie soundlessly on my own mattress, while the two girls sit huddled together on Pexey's bed, chattering away about a school assignment.

I lie in silence atop my yellow comforter. Both my mind and my heart are racing. How can Pexey and Evie act so casual, so unnerved, today of all days?

I can feel my breath shortening and quickening. I place a hand over my heart, as though trying to ensure that it does not stop beating. The anxiety threatens to envelop me in its firm grasp. It threatens never to release me.

"Ryam?"

"Ryam, are you okay?"

The voices of Pexey and Evie float distantly to the depths of my conciousness.

"Ryam, listen to me!" Pexey grabs my chin in the palm of her hand. At some point she must have moved onto my bed. "Breathe, Ryam. Inhale … hold … exhale … hold … inhale …. hold … exhale … hold."

I follow Pexey's directions. I can feel the feeling of panic dissolving into waves of serenity.

"Thanks," I tell my sister in a small voice, once I've sufficiently relaxed.

"Don't worry about," she says with a smile, squeezing my arm. "That's what twins are for."

"Another panic attack?" Evie asks.

"Yes," Pexey answers, before I can get a word in. "He's been having a lot of them lately."

"Maybe it will help you to talk about it," Evie suggests. "What's on your mind, Ryam?"

I pause for a moment. Then, sheepishly, I mutter, "Reaping Day." It's embarrassing to be having literal panic attacks at the prospect of the Reaping, while Pexey and Evie have been sitting and chatting happily together all day, as though they have no care in the world.

Two sets of chocolate eyes blink at me, waiting for me to elaborate.

I take a deep breath, hold it, and exhale. "This is the second year that we are eligible for Reaping," I tell them, stating the obvious, "which means that each of us has two slips in the Reaping bowl. So there are six total slips representing our names. Six chances to be chosen for the Hunger Games."

"Oh Ryam," says Pexey sympathetically, "you don't have to-"

Evie cuts her off. "That's not entirely true." Evie looks down at her hands. Her cheeks are flushed. "Well, you both know that my father lost his job recently. Mom's been struggling to make ends meet, but she hasn't been able to support all six of us alone, and none of my siblings are old enough to be Reaped, so …" she pauses, swallowing audibly. "So I had to take out tesserae for all of us. Six tesserae."

"Evie," Pexey returns to her own bed and puts an arm around our best friend's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I just didn't want to talk about the Games, you know? Plus, Ryam's panic attacks had finally seemed like they were going away for a while, and I didn't want to say anything that might bring them back."

Pexey continues to comfort Evie. I work on my breathing.

Inhale … hold … exhale … hold.

Just keep breathing.

Inhale … hold … exhale … hold.

In just a few hours, the Reaping will be over, and then we won't have to worry about it again for a whole year.

Inhale … hold … exhale … hold.

* * *

 **Alexandra "Alex" Bishop, 17, District Three Female**

* * *

Elicia and I stand amidst the other seventeen-year-olds from Three. Our arms are linked together.

"Are you nervous?" she asks me for the eighth time.

I sigh, exasperated. "No, Elicia, I'm not nervous. I've been training my whole life for this. I'm ready to go."

"Right …" she pauses for a second, after which she removes her arm from mine. "But are you sure you're not nervous? Because I'm really nervous." She wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead. "And I know you're my aunt and everything, and maybe I'm supposed to respect you or whatever, but you're also my best friend, and I don't want to lose you."

"Elicia," I say irritably. "I love you. But if you don't want to lose me, you should start by not spitting in my ear."

"Oh," she blushes a deep scarlet. "Sorry," she whispers. "I didn't realize."

She folds her arms across her chest. I feel a twinge of regret for snapping at her, but I don't have time to soothe her ego. I'll take care of that later when we say goodbye.

"Ladies and gentlemen of District Three, welcome to the Reaping ceremony for the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games! My name is Rupert Galax and I will be your very own tributes' escort to the Capitol." Our escort, Rupert, launches into speech about what a great honor it is to be an escort for the Hunger Games and to represent District Three.

Meanwhile, My eyes find Neo Thrin up on stage, and I narrow them in disgust.

Panem considers Neo to be District Three's only Victor. He gets the royal treatment from the Capitol, because President Crimson only allows the tributes who have won under his own regime to act as mentors in the Games, and to tour the country, basking in the fame and fortune. Jason won the Games during Snow's era; he got to keep his house in the Victor's Village, but that's about it.

Rupert has concluded his speech; he is now reaching two nimble fingers into the female bowl. "Carella Jonas!" he announces.

Carella is a tall eighteen-year-old with frizzy brown hair. With a hand over her mouth to prevent her tears from spilling out, she starts her slow trudge to meet Rupert on the stage.

"Wait!" I shout, before she can get too far. "I Volunteer!"

The escort actually gasps into the microphone. Carella stares at me blankly for a moment. Then she turns around, walks up to me, and wraps me in a tight hug. My neck suddenly feels wet. With a grimace, I realize that Carella has been crying into it.

I push her away. "Get off of me. I didn't Volunteer for you. I don't even know you. I Volunteered for me."

I bound up to the stage, and smile widely at the escort and then at the audience.

"A District Three Volunteer! How wonderful!" Rupert gushes. "How absolutely, positively wonderful! This is quite the pleasant surprise!"

"Yeah, well, I'm full of surprises. I'm Alex, by the way. Alexandra Bishop."

"It's an honor to meet you, Alex. Alexandra Bishop."

"Um … yeah. Right back atcha."

"Moving on to the males," says Rupert. He reaches a hand deep into the clear, round bowl containing the names of potential male tributes. He pulls out a slip of paper and calls "Ryam Flash"

At first, nothing happens. Ryam does not move. Peacekeepers have to move through the crowds to locate him. They travel in systematic parade of white uniforms and masked faces.

While the Peacekeepers hunt Ryam down, my eyes wander until they find my parents amidst the vast crowd. I can feel my eyes narrowing in disgust once more; my parents are so glad to have me Volunteer, because they think I'll give them some of my earnings once I'm crowned Victor, as Jason used to do before he widened up and stopped. I can't wait to see the looks on their smug faces when I win the Games and refuse to give them any of my money.

Two Peacekeepers emerge from the crowd moments after they entered it. They carry a gangly thirteen year old, whose shrieks of terror echo throughout the District Square. His entire body is trembling, and his face is red from crying. One Peacekeeper grasps Ryam's legs, while the other has his hands underneath Ryam's back, as though the boy is a platter of food which he is serving.

Ryam is dropped down on next to Rupert. His tailbone lands on the stage floor with a small thud. Rupert kindly offers him a hand, but Ryam shakes his head to decline it, choosing to remain on the floor, where he clutches his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, hyperventilating.

Rupert watches him momentarily before electing to move on.

"All different personalities are welcome in the Hunger Games," Rupert says with an awkward chuckle, glancing back and forth between me and Ryam. So, District Three, your tributes in the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games are Alexandra Bishop and Ryam Flash! Good luck to you both, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

* * *

 **Ryam Flash, 13, District Three Male**

* * *

My brain registers the whispered sounds of Pexey's calm voice in my ear. "Inhale … hold … exhale … hold. Inhale … hold … exhale … hold."

"I- I- can't," I choke. "It's t-too much."

My body is riddled with goosebumps. My breathing is short and uneven.

"Breathe, Ryam," Pexey urges me, clasping my hand in hers. "I need you to breathe for me right now."

I inhale sharply and force myself to hold it in before exhaling slowly.

"Great job, Ryam," Evie says with a sweet smile, taking my other hand.

The anxiety lifts momentarily, but I know it will return shortly. My very worst fears have been confirmed. I have been Reaped for the Hunger Games. I am going to die.

I can feel fat, salty tear after fat, salty tear glide down each of my cheeks.

I am going to die.

I resume my violent shaking.

I am going to die.

Inhale … hold … exhale … hold.

"You know you have a chance, right?" says Pexey, as though reading my mind. "Neo Thrin won at age thirteen. You can do it too."

But right now it feels as though I can't do anything except allow myself to be crushed beneath the weight of my fear and anxiety. And I haven't even entered the Arena yet.

Pexey sits to my right in the Justice Building; Evie sits to my left. My father paces the room, muttering nervously to himself. My mother stands before with tears in her eyes and a hand running through my dark curls..

"Sweetheart, you have to try," says Mom, speaking for the first time. Her eyes glitter with tears. "Can you do that? Can you try for us?"

I nod my head. I can try for them, even though I know I will fail. I allow Mom to wrap her arms around my neck and clutch me tightly against her chest. Pretty soon, Dad joins the hug, throwing his own arms around me and Mom.

I am comforted by the warmth of my parents' embrace. For a split second, I almost smile.

And then, too quickly, they pull away.

Evie hugs me next, followed by Pexey. Each time, I am comforted by the embrace of my loved one, only to have them release me.

A Peacekeeper comes in and informs us that we have one minute left.

"I l-love you so much, R-ryam," Pexey stammers through her tears. "You're my b-best friend. You've b-been my b-best friend since birth."

"Before birth," I correct her.

Pexey plants a delicate kiss on my wet, reddened cheek, and then, all too soon, the Peacekeeper returns and drags them all out, one by one.

"Remember your breathing, Ryam!" Pexey shouts, as the Peacekeeper pulls her away. "Inhale … hold … ex-"

But her words are cut off by the slamming of a door, and I am left alone to ponder my impending doom.

* * *

 **Hey everyone! Thanks for reading! Please leave a review, and let me know your thoughts on Alex and Ryam.**

 **District Four is up next! See you guys soon :D**


	8. Motivation

" _A champion needs motivation above and beyond winning"_

 **\- Pat Riley**

* * *

 **Atlas Cian, 18, District Four Male**

* * *

Darrius and I stroll down the street in the center of the district, where we are as distant from the water as it is possible to be in District Four.

A spider scurries across the pavement. I alter the path of my stride in order to crush it beneath my shoe. I can feel my heart pulsating with enthusiastic anticipation. It is finally time for me to Volunteer for the Games.

As I watch the blood ooze out of the spider's tiny, limp body, I imagine that it is the District Ten tributes who are bleeding out until nothing remains of them but lifeless black specks, while I watch with satisfaction, gloriously responsible for their mutual demise.

District Ten will finally see that they made a huge mistake by never trying to get my family back after my grandparents were transferred to Four where their mathematical talents were needed..

If our family had not been transported to this wretched district two generations ago, I would not be an orphan; my mother might not have gotten sick, and my father certainly would not have drowned, District Ten is blissfully void of the treacherous waters that plague us here in Four. Ten is void of the deceitful sea whose clear, rippling blue waves have enticed nearly everyone in Four. But the sea cannot fool me. I know of its evil waves, and I avoid it whenever possible.

"Atlas!" I can feel Darrius fingers on my hands, attempting to undo the balls of my fists; I did not even realize that I had been clenching them in anger.

"Sorry," I clear my throat. "I was just thinking about District Ten. And District Four. This whole country is just so f-"

"Atlas!" Darrius repeats. "Don't think about that stuff right now, okay? Can't we just be together in the moment? Can't we just enjoy each other's company?"

"No. We can't. That's part of the problem. I can't hold your hand or kiss you in public, because people will judge us. I probably could have lost my position as Volunteer if I came out as gay."

Darrius sighs, and runs a hand across his chiseled jawline. "You don't know that. You don't know what people will think of you coming out until you do it, right? But either way … we'll be openly together once you're a Victor."

"Yeah," I nod. "Once I'm a Victor, other people's opinions won't dictate my life. _My_ opinions will dictate _theirs_. We'll be able to touch in public ... We'll be able to get married."

With my anger temporarily abated, and the thought of our wedding buzzing through both of our heads, we walk side by side down the road. Physically, we don't touch. Emotionally, we are locked in a tight, unyielding embrace.

* * *

 **Namaka Cresswell, 18, District Four Female**

* * *

"Are you working today?" I ask Kanaloa casually over a breakfast of tessera bread.

Kanaloa raises an eyebrow at me. "You think I would rather go to work than spend one last day with my little sister?"

"Good point," I grin. "I'm delightful. You should try to spend as much time with me as possible."

Kanaloa chuckles.

"And by the way," I press on. "When I win the Hunger Games, will you _finally_ stop calling me your 'little sister?'"

Kanaloa shakes his head, digging the blade of a knife into his portion of tessera bread. "Nope. Even when you win the Hunger Games, I will continue to call you my little sister, because you _are_ my little sister."

I roll my eyes. "I'm younger by all of six minutes."

Kanaloa nods his head wisely. "Every minute counts. You should remember that sage advice when you're in the Arena."

I shake my head in exasperation, smiling despite myself.

"So … where's our _dear_ mother?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Take a wild guess."

"Drunk? Sleeping?"

Kanaloa nods. "Both I guess? She drank herself into a stupor last night while you were at the Academy for your last training session. She's sleeping it off now."

I grumble angrily into my tessera bread.

Kanaloa clenches his utensils tightly in his fists. "I guess we'll have to go wake her up and get her ready to go before the Reaping."

I exhale sharply. "I suppose so."

Just then, my youngest siblings, Dalia and Maylin bound into the kitchen.

"I'm hungry! I'm hungry!" Dalia screeches, jumping around the room and waving her arms around. "Kanaloa! Namaka! I said I'm hungry! What can I eat? What can I eat? What can I eat?" Her boundless energy gets on my nerves.

I ignore Dalia. Instead, I turn to Maylin and cut off a grayish slice of tessera bread which I slide onto his plate. "This is for you, Maylin," I say kindly.

"Thank you, Namaka," he replies sweetly, pulling out his fisherman action figure to play with at the table; he can't go five minutes without pulling a toy to play with.

Of my two four-year-old siblings, I find Dalia irritating and Maylin quite lovable.

"Where is everyone else?" Dalia taunts me. "Where are Lilybeth and Jarita?" she inquires of two of our other sisters.

"I don't know, Dalia," I say through gritted teeth.

"But Namaka! Where's Mommy? Why isn't Mommy here? Isn't today a special day for you, Namaka? Why didn't Mommy want to wake up early on such a special day? I guess it must not be so special after all …" her high pitched squeak of a voice trails off.

I slam my hands onto the table, springing out of my chair.

"I'll be in my room if anyone needs me," I announce to the room at large, fed up with my mother and Dalia.

"Seriously, Namaka?" Kanaloa asks. "You can't just be with the family right now?"

"No. I can't," I snap. "Kanaloa, eventually you'll have to wake our mother and force her to come to the District Square to witness the most important day of her daughter's life!"

And with that, I toss my silky black hair over my shoulder and strut out of the kitchen with my head held high. I don't look back.

* * *

 **Atlas Cian, 18, District Four Male**

* * *

I can feel the blood coursing through my veins to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I form two chocolate-colored fists with my hands. This time, I clench them out of excitement rather than anger.

I stand with my fellow eighteen-year-olds, awaiting the start of the Reaping ceremony. I force myself to to exhale calmly. Pretty soon, I will be the Victor of the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games. They will all look upon me with a mixture of admiration and fear. I will have enough clout to marry Darrius without people questioning my strength because of my sexuality.

Bbefore that, of course, there will be the Games themselves wherein I will finally have my chance to reap my revenge on District Ten, the district that never wanted me or my family … the district whose rejection of my family cost us so much … cost _me_ so much. In the Arena, the District Ten tributes will feel my wrath. I will snap their puny necks from up close or hit them from a long distance with my bow and arrow. I will even flirt with the girl from Ten to make her think she can trust me … I will do whatever it takes to destroy them … to maim them … tomurder them.

The entirety of District Ten will regret ever angering me.

"Um," the escort clears her throat timidly into the microphone. "Um … hi everyone." She twirls a strand of hair around her finger. Her mousy voice is amplified into a high pitched shriek that permeates the Square. "This is my first time doing this," she says with a nervous cough. "I guess I'm really lucky to have gotten a Career district my very first year as an escort." A few people clap lightly. The escort's cheeks are bright red at this point. "My name is Claire Emery, and I will be District Four's escort for the ninety-third annual Hunger Games."

The crowd breaks into a low rumble. I grit my teeth and clench my fists. I can feel my body heating up with anger. This is just my luck! My escort is a bumbling newbie who doesn't even know what year of the Hunger Games we're up to.

One of Four's Victors, Maytal Quay, rising from her chair with a failed attempt at subtlety. She crosses the stage and whispers something in Claire's ear.

Claire looks as though she's about to have a heart attack. She is now twirling her hair so vigorously it looks like she's trying to pull it out. Her face has become such a deep scarlet that it actually calms me down a bit, reminding me of the blood of District Ten's tributes which will soon be on my hands.

Maytal now has an arm around Claire, who seems to be unable to speak. Maytal whispers something else in Claire's ear, and Claire seems to experience a moment's relief; her face lightens a shade.

Staggering away from the microphone, Claire takes Maytal's vacated seat beside our other Victor, Luminessa Clay.

Luminessa gives Claire a kind smile which Claire seems incapable of meeting. In fact, Claire seems incapable of doing anything but staring at her orange-painted toenails and sinking lower and lower into Maytal's chair.

Maytal taps on the microphone to attract the district's attention. "So … I'll be taking over the Reaping ceremony for today. Welcome to the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games, everyone."

A roar of cheering ensues. Maytal's adoring fans are many in number. Personally, I don't see the hype surrounding her. She didn't even have any good reason to Volunteer for the Games all those years ago. She just did it for the fame and fortune like any number of other Career tributes. It's not as though she had the level of motivation that I possess to kill both tributes from District Ten and return to Four will Darrius and I can marry without judgement.

"Willa Rone," Maytal says clearly into the microphone, having drawn a slip of paper from the female bowl.

I recognize the name; Willa is my age.

"I Volunteer!"

A black haired girl charges up the stairs to the stage. "My name is Namaka Cresswell," she says, before Maytal has a chance to ask. "But you knew that, May," she says loftily, giving Maytal a playful nudge.

"Of course," Maytal tells the crowd. "Namaka is one of our most promising ever trainees."

Namaka beams at Maytal and then at the Square at large.

"Shall we move on?" Maytal suggests, but Namaka holds out an arm to halt Maytal's hand from Reaping the next tribute.

"Not just yet, May," Namaka says slyly, raising her eyebrows. "The show's just begun." In one swift, fluid motion, Namaka pulls off her seafoam green Reaping Day dress to reveal a lacy black bra and matching underwear. She clasps her hands over her head and begins to dance, moving her body seductively in circular motions and arranging her face into an expression of pure lust.

After roughly five minutes of Namaka's performance, Maytal cuts in sharply, "Okay, Namaka. I think it's time for the boys."

Namaka shrugs. "I know what you're thinking, May. You really should have done the boys first, because there is no way that anyone will be able top my dancing. I'm a really tough act to follow, and for that I apologize."

I can feel my fists clenching yet again at the sound of her words. My heart rate is quickening. I audibly emit a low growl, attracting a few stares from people around me. Who does this girl think she is? I can most certainly "follow" her "act."

"Actually," Maytal shifts uncomfortably. "I was thinking that maybe you should put your dress back on."

Namaka shrugs again. "Why would I do that? I've got nothing to hide. And like I said before, there's no way that whichever brutish guy is planning on V-"

"I VOLUNTEER!" I bellow, channeling all of my anger at District Four, District Ten, and now Namaka into those fateful words. I can hear the sound of my voice reverberating throughout the District Square. Shoving people out of my way, I bolt up to the stage and stand with Maytal and Namaka.

Maytal looks at me oddly. "Well, you know honey … traditionally you're supposed to wait for another boy to be Reaped before you Volunteer." She hesitates for a second, considering. "But I suppose that this year's Reaping ceremony has been anything but traditional," her eyes travel over Namaka's half naked body and then flit over to Claire Emery, who is sitting in a heap with her head buried in her lap. "So I guess it's okay?"

"I'M ATLAS CIAN!" I tell District Four, utilizing my booming voice once again and forgoing the microphone.

Namaka and I both look at Maytal expectantly. She hesitates, having momentarily forgotten that she is acting as our escort. Namaka decides to take matters into her own hands. "Happy Hunger Games, District Four!" she calls, to thundering applause. "Your tributes for the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games are me, Namaka Cresswell," she pauses and waves her hands to encourage applause. "And Atlas Cian." She does not pause after my name to wait for applause. "Atlas, may the odds be ever in your favor. As for me … I don't need the odds to be in my favor. My prodigious skills, stunning appearance, and charming personality will take care of that for me."

Seething with anger, I rack my brains for something to say to win the crowd over for myself, but it's too late; District Four is already chanting Namaka's name in adoration while she waves and blows kisses at her adoring fans.

My eyes seek out my grandmother and little sister, Joy, who is not yet eligible for Reaping. They stand with Darrius, who is already past Reaping age. The three of them wave at me wearing broad smiles on their proud faces.

Namaka may have won the hearts of most of the district, but I know that at least three people are on my side. That's going to have to be enough for me right now, because that's all I've got.

* * *

 **Namaka Cresswell, 18, District Four Female**

* * *

I am seated on a plush crimson couch wearing my turquoise sequinned dress once again

"Where's my mother?" I demand, injecting shards of ice into my voice and glancing between my family members.

Kanaloa exchanges an uncomfortable look with Rydia and Aunt Cascata. He clears his throat and pauses for a moment, before saying, "I brought her to the Reaping, but she said it would be too painful to come say goodbye to you and that 'losing one person is enough for one lifetime.' I think she went home to drink."

I fold my arms across my chest, exhaling slowly.

" _We're_ here Namaka," says Rydia, squeezing my hand, and we exchange a smile. "Focus on us instead of Mother."

Rydia is my oldest and favorite sister. She has already moved out of the house and lives with her husband and son. Rydia is my mother's only child conceived with her beloved husband who died a few years after Rydia's birth in a boating accident. I think that time skipped our family when it was healing all other wounds, because Mother never got over his death; for over two decades, most of her life has consisted of alcohol, oversleeping, and sex, including prostitution, some of which has resulted in accidental pregnancies that ended up as myself and my siblings.

"Of course, we're here with you, sweetheart," Aunt Cascata agrees. I exchange a smile with her as well, although not as warmly or genuinely as I did with Rydia. I can't help the bitter thoughts that involuntarily creep into my consciousness when I speak with Aunt Cascata; when Kanaloa and I were younger, she told us that she would adopt us and take us away from Mother to live with her instead. Aunt Cascata never kept her word; she left us with her bitter, ever-grieving sister.

One by one, I hug my five younger siblings. My differing feelings towards the five of them are forgotten momentarily; I embrace them all, conveying my deepest affections. They shuffle out of the room in a chaotic jumble; sixteen-year-old Lilybeth is silent and seemingly eager to get on with her day; thirteen-year-old Wylie is grumbling incoherently; nine-year-old Jarita is chattering away with little Dalia; Maylin, holding Lilybeth's hand, keeps glancing back at me on his way out the door. Each time he glances back, we make eye contact, and I give him an encouraging wave and smile.

I am left in the Justice Building goodbye room with Rydia, Aunt Cascata, and Kanaloa. I grasp Rydia's arm and clasp Aunt Cascata's hand. Glancing between them, I say, "I love you both. Thank you for … well, thank you for raising me." My words are primarily aimed at Rydia, and it is her sparkling green eyes that I look into when I speak them.

Together, they wrap their arms around me: Rydia from my left side and Aunt Cascata from the right. Then they exit the room, leaving me alone with Kanaloa.

My brother sits down next to me, and I lean against him. For a few minutes, we sit in silence, each basking in our twin's company for the last time before the Games.

Kanaloa breaks the silence. "I would say good luck, but you made it very clear at the Reaping that you don't need it."

I grin confidently. "And I meant what I said; I have so much skill that luck doesn't even come into play."

Kanaloa nods and gently kisses my forehead. "But in all seriousness, come back to me, Namaka."

"Oh, I'm being totally serious," I say, puffing out my chest. "And when I win, Kanaloa, we'll have a better life: you … me … the whole family." I think of Rydia and Maylin with a warm smile. "Just imagine how wonderful it will be … We can have all the lavish food we've ever dreamed of; no more tessera bread."

He nods. "We'll live in the Victor's Village."

"And we won't have to work anymore to support the family," I finish. "Although I'll probably keep dancing," I say with a devious grin and a shrug of my shoulder, "you know, just for fun."

Kanaloa merely smiles, kisses my forehead one more time, and walks out the door with a goodbye wave.

I will win the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games. I will win, because I have to win in order to obtain a better life for myself and my family.

* * *

 **And we're cruising into District Four! Haha, sorry bad pun. Although actually, if you're reading this note, you've probably already read the chapter, so it's more like cruising into District Five, which is not a pun at all ... but I digress.**

 **Just to clear up some confusion from last chapter about Ryam that I saw in the reviews: Pexey is his twin sister, and Evie is the twins' best friend. Sorry if I did not make that clear enough in the chapter!**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please leave a review to let me know what you thought of Atlas and Namaka :D I love hearing your thoughts about the tributes!**

 **I'll see you guys soon with District Five! :D**


	9. Inside

" _So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them."_

 **\- Sylvia Plath**

* * *

 **Anthony Boissere, 15, District Five Male**

* * *

"Excuse me, young man," a middle-aged stranger approaches me on the street on my way to Javier's house.

"W-who me?" I stammer. I can feel my cheeks reddening, and I avoid eye contact with the man.

"Yes, you. Can you tell me where I-"

"I'm sorry," I cut him off abruptly. "I don't know."

Continuing on my way, I internally curse my painful shyness. I wish social interaction with strangers came as easily to me as a conversation with Javier or Dad.

Every time I voice my discomfort to Dad, he tells me that if I want to be more loud and social, I should just start going up to more people and talking to them. I should have more to say.

He doesn't get it. My shyness is like a brick wall between my internal and external worlds. It clouds my brain and prevents my speech from flowing normally and expressing the thoughtful, coherent ideas that I have when I am alone..

I keep my head down for the rest of the walk to Javier's house, so as to avoid making accidental eye contact with with the rest of the world.

When I arrive at the steps to Javier's house, I can feel myself physically relaxing; my breathing slows, and my heart rate returns to its normal rhythm.

I knock thrice on the door, and a petite, black haired woman opens it: Javier's mother.

"Um, um, hi," I say, forcing my lips to upturn in an awkward smile.

"Javier!" she calls up the staircase. "Anthony's here!"

"Thank you, Ma'am," I tell her, proud of myself for expressing my gratitude without hesitation or stuttering.

Moments later, Javier and I are in his backyard playing with the handmade slingshots we assembled years ago. Birds chirp blissfully all around us; they are utterly at peace, just like Javier and me. I breathe in the sweet smell of freshly mown grass and feel the cool breeze rustling my hair. My eyes take in the luscious green all around us.

I aim the slingshot at a nearby tree and pull back the sling. When I release it, I watch the rock soar and hit its target.

"Nice shot," says Javier, aiming his own slingshot at a flowerbed.

"Thanks, buddy. You're not too shabby yourself."

"So, what did you think of that assignment from Mrs. Belrose?"

I groan. "I had forgotten about that. Are we supposed to work in partners?"

"Yeah," he says in affirmation. "Do you want to work together?"

"Of course," I say with a nod. We look at each other, grinning. Finally, the weight of social interaction has lifted; when I'm with Javier, I feel entirely at ease.

* * *

 **Solana Zephyr, 16, District Five Female**

* * *

"Do you need any help clearing up, Mom?" I ask brightly. Without waiting for her response, I start gathering the breakfast plates.

"Clearing up already? Sweetheart, you barely ate one bite. You know we can't waste any food."

"I'm sorry," I mutter, glancing down at my plateful of tessera bread. My happy voice and jovial smile have dissipated. "I'm so sorry, Mom."

She chuckles. "You don't have to be sorry, honey. I just wanted to make sure you don't throw it out."

I nod with a forced, tight-lipped smile.

"What's wrong, Solana?" Mom asks. "Are you worried about the Reaping? Is it the tesserae that are bothering you?"

I can feel my lips wobbling and my eyes beginning to sting with tears. The Reaping? The tesserae? What right do I have to worry about the Reaping now, when four years ago, the Reaping was all I worried about? … I should have been thinking about my family ... about Bolt. Every year, Reaping day is a reminder of what my selfishness cost our family.

I keep all of this buried deep inside of me; I don't want to burden Mom with my guilt.

"Yeah," I lie. "I was worried about the Reaping."

"Honey," Mom crosses the room and puts an arm around me. "I know it's scary, but the Reaping ceremony will be quick. It will be over soon, and then you'll be safely back home." She takes my plate from my hands and places it on the table. She pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit. "Have a bite to eat. It will make you feel better."

"Thanks for always looking out for me, Mom," I tell her, squeezing her hand.

"Isn't that my job?" she asks with a laugh.

I forge another bright smile. In an effort to appease her, I lower myself into the chair and begin to nibble on the tessera bread. Mom was wrong; the food does nothing to assuage the discomfort in the pit of my stomach.

I'm glad she was wrong. I don't deserve to feel better.

* * *

 **Anthony Boissere, 15, District Five Male**

* * *

Javier and I wait on line in the District Square to prick our fingers. When it's my turn, I feel the pinch of a needle that that lets me know my finger has been pricked. I move to the side, where I wait for Javier who is behind me on line. When he is ready, we walk fifteen-year-old section together.

Javier's lips are moving rapidly next to me, but I am not listening.

I can't help the twinge of jealousy with which I am panged. Javier has virtually nothing to worry about; his name is only in the Reaping bowl four times. I am not quite so lucky; since age twelve, I've had to take out tesserae to help support Dad and me.

"Anthony?"

"Hmm?"

"Is that a yes?

"Sorry," I blush. "I wasn't listening," I say abashedly.

"I asked if you wanted to hang out again later today, after the Reaping? We can work on that assignment for Mrs. Belrose."

"Definitely," I say, nodding. I feel another pang of envy; Javier can plan for later today in such cavalier tones, because his chances of being Reaped are next to nothing.

Javier opens his mouth to reply, but his words are drowned out by the voice of District Five's escort.

"The Happiest of Hunger Games to you all, my dear comrades of District Five. Tis the ninety-fifth thereof if mine memory does not fail me." His curly white hair is tied back neatly with a little black bow. "My name is Alabaster Bane. My task is to escort your tributes to the Capitol. This task is of the utmost importance, and I do not take my role lightly." He pauses to adjust his bowtie. "Alas, the time for Reaping is upon us. Allow us to draw the name of your female tribute." He reaches a hand into one of the two glass bowls, pulling out a single slip of paper. "District Five, tis my pleasure to call upon Solana Zephyr as your female tribute."

I hear a loud gasp from the sixteen-year-old section. A girl with dirty blond hair slowly steps towards the stage. She receives a few encouraging nods from her friends as she walks.

"Welcome, dear Solana," says Alabaster, once Solana is up on stage with him. He clasps her hands in his and bows to her. She responds with a weak smile.

"And now," he says with a flick of his white ponytail, standing upright and facing the crowd once more. "Methinks the time has arrived to select your second tribute, my dear friends; this time we shall select a tribute of the male persuasion."

Alabaster plunges his hand deep into the male bowl with such vigor that a few slips of paper fly out of the bowl, falling slowly to the ground. Alabaster removes a single slip and looks around at us all, wearing a beam of delight upon his face.

Beads of sweat begin to accumulate in my upper back. The anticipation is killing me. Whose death sentence is Alabaster about to confirm?

"District Five, tis my honor to announce your male tribute: Anthony Boissere."

Anthony Boissere.

That's me.

I look to my left; Javier's eyes are wide with shock, and his mouth hangs open. I begin to tremble violently. I can feel the district's eyes on me. I try to take a step forward, but my legs refuse to budge. It is as though two giant boulders rest in my shoes; I have no control over them, and I fear I will never gather the strength to lift them up.

Two firm pairs of hands close around my arms; I am being dragged to the stage by the Peacekeepers. I allow myself to be pulled forward. I am thrown down onto the stage with Alabaster and Solana.

"Welcome, welcome, Anthony," Alabaster says with a bow.

I stand rooted to the spot. All of District Five blinks up at me as one. Thousands of pairs of eyes are scanning me, judging me, appraising my potential as a tribute; their owners are no doubt wondering if myself or Solana will emerge from the Hunger Games victorious or perish in the Arena, fading into oblivion as countless tributes have done before us.

I can feel my cheeks reddening with embarrassment. I shove my hands into my pockets and tap my fingers anxiously inside them. Rocking back and forth, I glue my eyes to the stage floor, where they are safe from the rest of the district.

"Beloved friends," says Alabaster, to the district as a whole, "join me as we commence this most joyous journey known to one and all as the Hunger Games." He pauses, presumably waiting for applause, but none follow, so he plows on. "My dear tributes, Solana and Anthony." He places a hand on my shoulder. I assume he puts the other on Solana's, but I don't dare look up for long enough to know for sure. "It is my hope that, as we embark on this journey together, we grow into the dearest of friends. I look forward to our exciting adventures as we explore spectacular settings in our precious Panem, together as one."

Slowly, I register the escort's words, still staring at the floor.

Alabaster's future may include joyous journeys to spectacular settings in his precious Panem. Mine, on the other hand, holds nothing but darkness, destruction, and probably death.

* * *

 **Solana Zephyr, 16, District Five Female**

* * *

I cradle Mom's head in my lap, stroking her dirty blond hair that is so like my own; it feels soft and silky between my fingers.

Dad sits next to us with his arm wrapped around me. My best friend, Abigale, sits in a chair nearby, watching us wordlessly.

"I j-just can't believe that b-both of my b-babies are about to be gone," Mom sobs. "I don't think I can bear to lose you like we lost Bolt."

"Eryn," Dad cautions. "This hardly feels like the time to bring up Bolt."

I flinch and can't help but look at my father with a grimace. I twist my shoulders to detach them from his arm; I wish he would be more willing to speak about his deceased son. Sometimes I feel as though Dad has willingly forgotten about Bolt ... or, at least he's willingly trying to forget him.

Pretty soon, I will join Bolt in death, and then Dad can elect to forget about me as well.

"Now wait just a minute everybody!" cries Abigale's loud voice, cracking the shell of my morbid thoughts. Abigale gets up from her chair and starts pacing the room. "Why are you all talking like we're already at Solana's funeral? Huh? Who says she won't make it out of this thing alive?"

I shake my head. "Abigale, there are Careers who are trained to k-"

"So? People from non-Career districts win all the time. Look at Neo Thrin from Three who won at age thirteen. Look at Zappita Zany from here in Five; do you think she had any training before her Games?"

Zappita is Five's only Victor from Crimson's regime. I suppose that makes her my mentor. I nod my head slowly, managing a smile for Abigale. "I guess you're right, Abigale. People from outer districts do win sometimes. I might have a shot."

"You _do_ have a shot," she corrects me. "A really good shot." She takes both of my hands in hers. "You want to know why? Because you will be more motivated than any other tribute in that Arena to get back home to your family."

I allow some salty liquid to spill out of the corners of my eyes and fall down, landing on our joint hands. "And to you, Abigale," I say. "I'll also be more motivated than anyone else to get back home to you." I glance between my parents. "Don't worry," I tell them, giving them each an encouraging nod. "Abigale's right. I'll come home to you. I won't let you become childless because of me."

 _You already lost Bolt because of me,_ I add in my head.

The four of us engage in a sort of emotional, tearful group hug.

I cannot be responsible for leaving my parents bereaved once again; I am already responsible for the fatal demise of my sweet, boisterous, wonderful little brother.

When I was twelve, I selfishly chose not to take out tesserae, because I feared the Reaping bowl. Without the tesserae, Bolt gradually faded away, until he died of starvation.

Now, my accumulated tesserae from the years since have caught up with me, and the Reaping bowl has come to punish me for my wicked selfishness.

I deserve whatever horrors await me in the Arena.

* * *

 **Hi friends! I'm here with the Reaping chapter for District Five! I hope you liked it, and please leave a review to let me know what you think of Anthony and Solana.**

 **This chapter is a bit shorter than the last few, but I'm satisfied with it, so I decided to post it as is, rather than adding to it for the sole purpose of increasing the word count. I hope you guys don't mind the shorter length.**

 **Side note: I really like Alabaster! He's my favorite** **escort in this story so far. I'd love to know if you guys liked him too :)**

 **District Six is up next. See you guys soon!**


	10. Family

" _You must remember, family is often born of blood, but it doesn't depend on blood_

 **\- Trenton Lee Stewart**

* * *

 **Jerome Farrell, 16, District Six Male**

* * *

"Jerome! Wake up! _Jerome!_ " Mother's voice blares at my eardrums, snapping me out of my restful state of slumber. Her shrill shriek punctures my unconscious thoughts and stings my eardrums.

I find myself wondering, yet again, whether Mother cares for me at all; if she did, surely she would be more delicate when waking me.

My eyes pop open to reveal my mother's face hovering over mine. I turn my head to see my younger brother, Carter, still snoozing peacefully in his bed. Of course Mother chose to wake me first, leaving her favorite golden boy to enjoy a few extra minutes of sleep.

Carter is so spoiled. He rarely gets assigned chores. My parents don't even make him take out tesserae. All of that responsibility falls to me.

"Come on Jerome," Mother urges, shaking me vigorously. "Get up and make your bed, honey, then come downstairs and have some breakfast. Afterwards I need you to take out the garbage."

"Why me?" I groan, rolling over so as not to face her.

"Don't whine, Jerome. Lots of people right here in District Six have things much worse than you. People here in this very district are starving to death. Two innocent children are about to be Reaped for the Hunger Games. Have some perspective; stop acting like waking up and doing some chores for your mother is the end of the world.

She gives me one final shake and then _finally_ moves to the other side of the room to wake Carter.

Sighing dramatically to indicate my discontent, I flick off my comforter and and swing my legs over. I lift myself off of the bed, and begin to properly organize the plain white sheets and thick gray comforter.

While I make my bed, I ponder the essence of my actions. What's even the point of making the bed if I'm going to be messing them up again tonight when I sleep? And then, tomorrow, Mother will force me to make it again. And then, that night, I will sleep ago to sleep again, and they will be ruined once more. And on and on and on until laundry day when they will be washed, and then the cycle will continue with that night's slumber.

So what's the point?

With a sigh, I pat down my newly made bed.

Carter and I dress in silence. I pull on a nice pair of khaki pants and a white button down shirt for Reaping Day. I never understood the concept of dressing up nicely for Reaping Day. Do we really have to be well groomed when we send two kids off to the slaughter?

Despite my dismissal of the logic behind dressing up for the Reaping, I do so year after year, so as not to attract any negative attention; people might judge me if I don't get dressed up … Kara might judge me.

Once Carter and I are both dressed and our beds made, Carter dashes down the stairs and into the kitchen, while I take my time, descending step by step.

What's the point of stairs? Why can't everything just be on one floor? Why the constant need to go up and down?

Why can't the world just stay still for once?

* * *

 **Kaegan Fujimori, 16, District Six Female**

* * *

"Give us the money," I say, injected my tone with fiery menace. My face is inches from that of our target, Walt.

Bruce, the head of the CNTRLLRS, holds Walt by the shirt and aims a gun to his neck.

Walt spits into my face.

"Don't you dare disrespect her," snarls bruce into Walt's ear.

With a flick of my hand, I wipe off the saliva and aim a kick to Walt's calf.

He winces in pain, and tries to reach down to grasp his throbbing leg, but Bruce tightens his grip, preventing Walt from moving his arm.

"Next time, I'll land the kick where it really hurts," I say through gritted teeth. "Now. Give. Us. The. Money." I take care to speak slowly, emphasizing each word, "Or. He. Shoots."

"She's right," says Bruce. "The CNTRLLRS don't mess around. You owe us money. Fork it over."

"Fine," the man snarls, reaching deep into his pockets and fishing out a few bills, which he throws into the air at random, so that they scatter on the pavement. "Take the damn cash. Now let me go!"

Bruce does not move the gun, nor does he relinquish his grasp on the man's blood spattered shirt.

"Let him go, Bruce," I hiss in a low voice, nodding. "We got what we wanted from him. You told me we wouldn't use more force than necessary."

"You heard the little lady," says Walt. "Let me go, Bruce."

Rage coursing through my veins, I tug a tuft of his dark hair. "I'm no 'little lady.'"

Despite my anger, I nod at Bruce once more, and he drops the gun, releasing Walt, who scrambles to his feet and sprints away at his first instant of freedom from Bruce's grasp.

"You got off easy this time," Bruce calls after him. "Don't let us catch you owing us money again. You won't be so lucky the next time you mess with the CNTRLLRS!" He turns to me once the man is out of sight. "You'd best be scampering on home right about now, Kae." He pats me on the shoulder. "The mayor's daughter should not be spending all of Reaping day hanging out with a thug."

"I'm not just a mayor's daughter," I remind him. "I'm a gang leader's daughter as well."

" _Former_ gang leader," he corrects me with a chuckle. "Now that title belongs to me."

I stare down at the floor as the image of my father's slain body flashes before my mind's eye. "Too soon," I say with a grimace.

"Sorry," he mutters. "I'm really sorry, Kae. I know I shouldn't be joking about that. I miss him too. Everyday."

I continue to look down, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Can you forgive me, Kae? I didn't mean to upset you. Honest."

"It's okay," I say with a tight smile, finally looking up to match his gaze. "You're my family, Bruce. I'll always forgive you."

"Good. That's good to hear," says Bruce with a sigh of relief. "Now, get on home, kid." He pats me forcefully on the back, causing me to stagger forward in the direction of my house.

* * *

 **Jerome Farrell, 16, District Six Male**

* * *

District Six has no Victors.

We have a few from Snow's reign, but they're not allowed to mentor. Apparently, in the old days, under Snow, if a district had no Victors, a Capitol mentor would be provided for that district's tributes. However, now that the Capitol sends its own tributes to the Games, it won't have Capitol citizens assigned to be on a district's team and to cheer on another district's tributes. Except, of course, the escorts.

Speaking of whom ...

"Good day, District Six!"

No. It's not.

This day started off with Mother shaking me awake aggressively and continued to encompass disappointment after disappointment from my coercion to make my bed and take out the trash to Father yelling at me that my shirt was untucked to Kara practically ignoring me when we made eye contact earlier today while we waited to get our fingers pricked before the Reaping.

"Welcome to the Reaping ceremony for the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games! My name is Faye Fife, and I will be your escort to this year's Games. Let's shake things up a bit this year, and kick off the Reaping with your male tribute."

Of course she's trying to break from tradition. Her blue hair and zebra patterned skin indicate as much. I'm not impressed; her desperate attempt at non-conformity in her style is what makes her look just like every other woman in the Capitol.

Once she has chosen a slip of paper, she scans it with her eyes. Then she looks out at us all, giggling to herself, as though she is about to let us in on a juicy secret. I shake my head in exasperation. What an imbecile.

"Jerome Farrell!"

 _Jerome Farrell._

The words echo in my head, weighing me down. My feet remain firmly planted on the ground. I am too stunned to move. Too stunned to even tremble in fear. I merely stand there, while my brain processes the fact that I have just been Reaped for the Hunger Games: a fight to the death, from which only one person makes it out alive.

Slowly, the fear penetrates my stunned bubble of shock. My knees buckle and threaten to topple me over, but I catch myself in time. I force my legs to gradually inch forward until they reach the stairs to the stage. Bizarrely, at this moment it occurs to me for the second time today how odd the concept of stairs is. This time, though, the answer comes to me: it is all about levels. Hierarchy. The stage aims to separate the Capitolite escort from the lowly district people, while the staircase serves as the window to the stage; it is the gatekeeper to the elite. That's probably what tributes are supposed to think when they get Reaped.

When _we_ get Reaped.

And yet, I don't feel elite. I feel afraid.

Fear. Endless, crippling fear that consumes me and outputs a neverending series of chills.

Fear and bitterness.

Two little words consume my thoughts. They echo in my brain with every step I take, with every bit of air I breathe, with every second that ticks by, bringing me closer and closer to my dark and gloomy end: _Why_ _me?_

Why is the universe so resolutely determined to impede my personal happiness?

"Why, hello there Jerome Farrell," says the escort - _my_ escort - once I am up on stage. "My name is Faye Fife."

"I know," I mutter, looking down at my feet. "I heard you the first time."

"Stand up straight, dear," Faye whispers, pulling my shoulders back and turning my body to face the crowd. "And chin up!" She yanks my head upwards so that I am looking out at the faces of District Six.

They are looking up at me. Staring at me. Judging me.

I hastily lift a hand to push a few strands out of my face. I brush them to the side where they belong. Then I check to make sure my shirt is tucked into my slacks. Father was right; I have to look neat if I intend to impress people.

"Let's move onto the girls!" says Faye with a bright smile, as though she is about to pick the name of the girl who gets extra dessert, rather than one who gets to fight for her life in a battle to the death.

Faye dips her hand into the female bowl and removes one slip of paper. She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin up, perhaps so as not to seem like a hypocrite for forcing me to do so.

"Kaegan Fujimori!" she announces.

A collective gasp echoes from the group. Murmurs ensue; I catch everything from "What she deserves" to "Poor Mayor Fujimori" to "The other tributes better watch out."

I can feel my eyes widening in a mixture of shock and fear. I quickly force them back to their normal size so as not to openly display my fear to the judgemental eyes of the people.

Kaegan is part of a powerful and dangerous gang known as the CNTRLLRS. She is also the mayor's daughter. These two aspects of her identity combine to make her notorious and feared throughout District Six.

My eyes flit to Kaegan, standing amongst her peers. She is wearing a red leather jacket which she adjusts, glaring directly at me with her eyes narrowed threateningly.

She walks up to the stage and stands next to Faye, who immediately begins to fuss with the jacket. "Smile, darling," she says, using her fingers to twist Kaegan's lips into a grin. "You would look so much prettier if you just smiled."

"Don't tell me what to do," Kaegan snaps in a hushed tone. "Trust me. You don't want to get on my bad side, lady."

Yet, when Kaegan looks out at the district, she follows Faye's advice and positively beams, waving enthusiastically at our district and at the cameras.

"Okay then," says Faye quietly, slightly taken aback. It takes her a few seconds to regain her composure, during which she runs her fingers through her dark blue hair. Plastering a smile back on her black and white printed face, she says brightly, "So there you have it, District Six! Your tributes in the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games are Jerome Farrell and Kaegan Fujimori. Good luck, Jerome and Kaegan, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Yeah. Like that's going to happen. This day has made it perfectly clear that I have bad luck. Nothing ever works in my favor. There is no way I'm going to make it out of the Arena alive with no mentor, an airhead for an escort, and a vengeful gang member for a district partner.

* * *

 **Kaegan Fujimori, 16, District Six Female**

* * *

Mom sits next to me on the plush carmine couch. She has one hand on the empty wall behind us. Her other hand rests on my forearm. My little brother, Abraxas, sits on her lap, abuzz with questions.

"I don't understand. Why did they call Kae's name?" he asks yet again. "Is it because you're the mayor, Mommy? Or maybe … Is it because she is winning a special prize?"

Mom sniffs loudly and clutches my little brother by the shoulders. "Sort of, sweetheart. She gets to go on a special trip to the Capitol where she … where she's going to put on some fancy dresses and eat some yummy food, and then … and then she'll come home to us. Right, Kaegan?"

I nod my head curtly, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall..

"But then … why are you crying, Mommy?"

"Oh, you know … just because I'll miss Kaegan so much."

"I'll miss her too, Mommy."

He leaps of of our mother's lap and climbs into mine. "I'm going to miss you so much, Kae."

I nod my head once more, eyes still locked against the bare, white wall.

I wish Mom and Abraxas would go. I should be using this time wisely to plan out my Games strategy with Bruce, not saying a mushy goodbye to my mother and brother.

"But you don't have to worry, Abraxas. Because Kaegan will be back to us really soon. Won't you Kae?"

I nod yet again, but this time I allow myself a smile. "Yes. I will be back soon."

I can feel my heart pulsating harshly inside my chest. I wish Bruce would come in already to help me work out a strategy. When he does, I can expel the slight inklings of doubt threatening to invade my confident approach to the Games.

"I love you, Kae," says Abraxas, wrapping his arms around my neck. "And I'm going to miss you so much. But I'm glad you're going to be having so much fun in the Capitol."

"Um, yeah," I say hesitantly. "I love you too."

"Okay Abraxas, we should probably go now and let Kae's friends come say goodbye to her."

"Okay. Bye bye, Kae." He hugs me tightly. I pat him on the back. I find myself wishing, once again, that my mother and Abraxas would leave already. I don't need this. When I'm in the Games, I don't need a painful reminder of how much my family will miss me when I die. I need a good logical, strategy to get me out of the Arena alive.

"Goodbye, Kaegan," says Mom, kissing my head. "Come home to us soon."

My best friend, Lillith, comes in when Mom and Abraxas leave.

"Kaegan!" Lillith half sobs as soon as she steps into the room. She sits down next to me and grabs my hand. "I can't believe this, Kae. I mean, of course all of your gang involvement over the years has made me nervous, but now the Hunger Games."

She rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands.

I sigh and pat her on the back. Why do I have to take care of her like she's my six-year-old brother?

"Lils, you know that if anyone in our district can handle the Games, it's me. Think about everything I've handled with the CNTRLLRS. Before you know it, I'll be back home having been crowned District Six's first Victor of the Hunger Games during Crimson's presidency."

"You're right," Lillith says with a sigh of relief, reaching up a hand to touch the puncture marks up my ears where she pierced them during our sleepovers. "You're absolutely right, Kae. You can do this."

"I'll be back in no time," I reassure her with a smile, although I don't meet her eyes. I wish Bruce would come in already and help me work out a strategy, so that I can tell my family and friends that I will win the Games with full confidence, and without the shadows of doubt currently weighing me down.

My boyfriend, Emerson, comes in after Lillith and slams his lips against mine immediately.

I kiss him passionately, trying to convey my feelings through my lips, hoping that I won't have to express them out loud. I will miss you so much, I think as hard as I can, as though he will receive the message telepathically, even though I know that is a ridiculous notion. You complete me.

When we break apart, he holds my face in his hands. "I don't know what I'm going to do without your beautiful brown eyes."

I cringe. That is exactly the kind of soft, sentimental thought he should keep to himself. "Don't be like that. We're not that disgusting, mushy couple."

He laughs, and whispers, "Don't ever change, Kae." His lips brush against mine one more time, and then he leaves, to be replaced by Bruce.

I breathe an audible sigh of relief the second I lay eyes on his scarred face which wears a serious, determined expression.

"Bruce!" I jump out of my seat when I see him. Finally. No more heartfelt goodbyes. Let's talk strategy.

"Hey, Kae," he says with a chuckle. "Your dad always liked that little rhyme."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, well, I always sort of hated it."

He pulls me into a tight embrace. "You're going to make it out of this, Kaegan," he assures me, stroking my hair. "I promised your dad that I'd keep you safe. I can't lose you …. Your mom can't lose you. She's lost so much already. Your dad … Luca …"

"Please don't talk about them," I warn him. In a haste to change the subject, I say, "Strategy. Can we talk strategy? You and I are usually the ones who come up with the strategies for the CNTRLLRS, but my mind's a blank right now. I need some input."

He smiles and pats me on the shoulder. "Right. Strategy. Avoid the Bloodbath, Kaegan. You land a good kick every once in a while, but combat's not generally your strong suit … You're more of a …"

"Controller?" I ask with a chuckle.

"Yes. A controller. Just like your father. Maybe that's where the gang's name comes from."

My thin, brown eyes lock with Bruce's round, hazel ones. "I hope this gang stuff comes in handy in the Games."

"It will," says Bruce. "You'll definitely be more prepared than any other non-Career tribute. "

I nod. "Yeah. I will be," I say, desperately hoping that I am correct.

"So as I was saying, you'll want to make some allies to protect you, but don't get too attached. You'll have to betray them at some point. Lie low and don't go looking for a fight, but defend yourself if someone comes after you."

"Is that all you got? That's your great big strategy? Make allies and don't go looking for trouble. Isn't that what just about every tribute will be doing?

Bruce rolls his eyes. "That's my advice, Kae. Take it or leave it."

"Then I guess I'll have to take it," I say, with a slightly salty edge to my voice. "Thanks, Bruce."

The door bangs open. A Peacekeeper pokes his head in and informs us that we have one minute left.

"I guess I should be going now," says Bruce. I am surprised to see that his face is red and blotchy, and his eyes glisten with liquid that threatens to overflow.

Until today, I have only seen Bruce cry once in my life: the day my father died.

He pulls me into a hug and holds on until the Peacekeeper returns and says that our time is up.

He gently kisses the top of my head. Then he turns around and follows the Peacekeeper out of the goodbye room.

For the first time since I was Reaped, I allow the fear to creep into my bones, instead of dismissing it or pushing it away. This whole time, as I bade farewell to my family and friends, I eagerly waited for Bruce to come in and discuss strategy with me. For some reason, I deluded myself into believing that he would have some grand plan for my survival. But all he had for me was some generic advice and a tearful goodbye.

* * *

 **Hi guys! I'm here with District Six's Reaping chapter. Please leave a review if you can! I'd love to know your thoughts on Jerome and Kaegan.**

 **I've been going through some personal stuff recently, and it definitely showed in my last chapter which was was pretty short and not my best work. However, everything's better now, and I think this chapter came out pretty well :D I hope you guys liked it.**

 **So, now we've done the Reapings for the Capitol and Districts 1-6, which means that we're more than halfway done with the Reaping chapters. Yay!**

 **District Seven is up next :D**


	11. A Hundred Thousand Trees

" _In a forest of a hundred thousand trees, no two leaves are alike. And no two journeys along the same path are alike."_

― **Paulo Coelho**

* * *

 **Jarrod Palash, 16, District Seven Male**

* * *

Rays of sun peak through the leafy forest that surrounds me on all sides and shields me from above. Droplets of sunlight reach my steady hands, my sweat-soaked hair, and my worn work overalls.

I ignore the sun; There is no space to in my consciousness to dwell upon it. I am consumed with a blind, fuming rage which I channel into my axe.

And I chop.

And I chop.

And I chop.

The sounds of metal scraping against bark contort my face into a cringe, which only makes me want to chop more, to chop harder. I swing my axe with the fiery passion of a man who is deeply scarred. Which, incidentally, I am.

The axe makes contact with the bark of the tree over and over again until it topples over and makes contact with the ground. I allow the noisy collision of tree and ground to mask my voice as it screams a single word harshly and desperately: "Adairia!"

I chop wood to help my grandfather support us, but the action does nothing to quiet my anger nor to fill the gaping holes in my heart. In fact, it gives me more time to think about the fire that took my parents and Idra and the bitch from District Four who took Adairia from me. Chopping gives me time to augment my hatred towards a girl I never met; it gives me time to yearn for revenge.

Revenge. The word nearly brings a smile to my lips. It is the only solace amidst my perpetual anger and sorrow. The prospect of revenge is the only thing that prevents me from breaking down entirely. It is the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel of endless darkness of which my life has consisted so far.

I am aware of the hotness of my skin and the sweat that cakes it, though I'm not sure whether it stems from the blazing sun, the toil with which I occupy myself, or the heat of my own constant fury.

"Hey! What are you still doing here kid?" It's my boss. "It's Reaping day. Go home and be with your family."

"I'm not a kid," I hiss, swiping my axe at random. It makes a dent in the bark of a nearby tree. "I have lived a man's life. I have suffered a man's woes. Don't you _dare_ call me a kid again."

Leaving him to roll his eyes at me, I take my axe and make my way out of the luscious verdant forest.

Grandfather stands at the door expectantly when I arrive at home.

"What took you so long Jarrod?" he demands. "And why are you covered in dirt and sweat?"

"What do you think?" I demand, raising my voice. "Have you forgotten that I work as a lumberjack?"

He clucks his tongue. "Yeah, well, go get yourself cleaned up. In case _you've_ forgotten, the Reaping ceremony is not optional."

"I'm not the forgetful one in this house, old man! You're the one who will barely speak Adairia's name! I'm the one who's going to actually avenge her!" And with that, I stomp up the stairs and propelled forward by the hot energy of my fury. I make my way into my bedroom and slam the door behind me with such force that it shakes at the hinges. The sound reverberates throughout the house, and I am reminded of the tree trunk hitting the ground.

I take pleasure in the degree of damage that I am capable of causing. Destruction will be my revenge. Chaos will be my comfort. Wreckage will be my repose.

* * *

 **Havana Birch, 17, District Seven Female**

* * *

The world is quiet, but for the rustling of leaves in the wind and the crashes of our axes colliding with tree trunks. Father and I have grown so accustomed to this work and so comfortable swinging our axes that we do so in a perfectly synchronized rhythm.

"Are you nervous about the Reaping?" Father asks.

"No," I reply shortly.

Father sighs. "Havana, it's all right to be nervous. You have a lot of slips in the bowl this year."

I don't look at my father, and I don't break the rhythm of the swinging axes.

"Being nervous won't prevent me from being Reaped," I inform him in a flat tone. "And I don't have time to worry. I'm too busy helping you feed our family."

I chance at glance at Father, and I see that he is nodding.

Neither of us breaks the rhythm, until Father decides that we have done a solid day's work. Then, we leave the calm serenity of the forest, with the trees rustling in the background and the even thudding of our axes. We return home to find ourselves standing silently in an endlessly noisy household. The voices of our family travel back to us the instant we cross the threshold. Ema yells at Riley in a harsh grumble. Amaria sits in the living room, reading a story to Thalia and Noah in a soothing, motherly tone. Finlay teases Heidi, who sits on the steps with her nose buried in a book.

The house is small; the main floor consists of just a cramped kitchen and living room.

Amaria concludes the story with the words "They all lived happily ever after." Privately, I think she should know better than to instill a false sense of blind, unwavering hope in our youngest siblings, but I do not voice my contempt for the way Amaria chooses to raise them. I leave the child-rearing to her. Instead, I focus on chopping wood with my Father so the family can afford to live even the most meager of lives.

Amaria snaps the storybook shut and kisses Thalia and Noah atop their heads. "Daddy! Havana! You're home early!" she exclaims in delight.

"Yes," Father affirms, as he and I step into the living room. "We were forced to leave work early, because of the upcoming Reaping. But don't fret, my dears, we were able to work efficiently and complete a full day's work in the short time span allotted to us." Father walks out of the living room and taps Finlay and Heidi on their shoulders. They move aside, so that he can climb the staircase.

As my ears pick up the gentle, rhythmic banging of Father's footsteps against the staircase, I am momentarily transported back to the great green forest where my axe hits the trees in perfect time.

Amaria leaps to her feet and envelops me in a hug, drawing me back to the present.

I neither return nor resist her embrace.

She is dressed in a bright yellow sundress with her hair pinned up elaborately. When she releases me from the hug, I observe that her dress is not flecked with dirt from my overalls. She either does not notice or does not care.

"You look nice," I tell her.

"Thanks, Havana!" she giggles. "I did my hair myself. I hope you like it! And I did Thalia's too. Look!" She motions towards our six-year-old sister whose hair is tied back into a neat French braid. "I can do yours too," she says with a smile, and she runs her delicate fingers through my messy brown curls, "after you get changed into a nice Reaping day dress of course."

"No thank you," I reply. And I'm not going to change my clothes. This is just fine for the Reaping or any other event."

Amaria sweeps her eyes over my filthy, torn overalls. "Whatever makes you happy, Havana!" she says with a wide smile, which I return, albeit with roughly a quarter of her enthusiasm.

"Happy Havana!" Noah says with a high-pitched giggle.

"Don't be silly," Thalia says to the room at large. "Havana is never happy like Amaria."

Thalia and Noah cling to each other, and their giggles fill up the small living room.

"Thalia," Amaria hisses in a hushed tone that perhaps she thinks I do not hear. "Don't say things like that!"

"Sorry Mom- I mean, sorry, Amaria."

"Don't apologize to me, honey, apologize to Havana."

Thalia sighs and flings herself into my arms. "I'm so sorry, Havana. Please forgive me." I can feel liquid caking on my upper arms, and it takes me a moment to look down and see that the little girl is sobbing into it.

"It's okay, Thalia," I say, patting her awkwardly on the back. "Don't cry." I set her down on the floor and address them all. "I will be upstairs in my room from now until we leave for the Reaping."

"Okay, have fun!" says Amaria with a smile and an excited wave. She turns to the children. "So … how about another story, guys?"

My ears pick up their squeals of delight as I ascend the staircase. I feel an infinitesimal twinge of envy that I can never bring about the kind of joy in the children's hearts that Amaria can. I can provide them with nothing but financial stability which they do not understand, let alone appreciate.

* * *

 **Jarrod Palash, 16, District Seven Male**

* * *

Rage courses through my veins as though pure fury has replaced all of my blood.

Each passing second draws me closer and closer to avenging Adairia's death, and so with each passing second, more and more excitement mingles with the rage until the level of mixed emotion threatens to overwhelm me.

"Hello, District Seven!" says our escort, a portly man with a goatee. He wears a fuschia bowler hat and a wiry pair of spectacles. "My name is Gregorio Song, and I'm here as your escort to the Capitol for this year's Hunger Games. Now, I know what some of you must be thinking, and no, I'm not _that_ kind of escort." He winks at the crowd and chuckles to himself.

I feel an extra surge of the storm within me, and it threatens to explode and annihilate everything in its wake. But I force myself to wait until the Games begin before I allow my anger to pour out onto the world around me.

The escort fiddles with his glasses a bit and then continues to speak. "Now, I feel pretty close to you all, so you can all call me Greg. Speaking of close, how did the farmer mend his pants?" His eyes scan the faces of District Seven, evidently waiting for a response that never comes. After a while, he gives up and answers himself. "With cabbage patches!" He places a hand to his chest and shakes with roaring laughter, until he realizes that no one is joining in. He clears his throat. "Get it? He's a farmer, so he uses cabbage patches instead of fabric patches. Maybe that joke would have gone over better in District Eleven. Ugh, why didn't I request District Eleven?!" He lets out a long, dramatic sigh. "But did you guys get my transition there? I said the word 'close' and then I made a joke about clothes, because the words 'close' and 'clothes' sound the same. Get it? Do you guys get it?" He is met with silence once again. "You guys didn't like that one? That's okay. There's plenty more where that came from. Did you hear the one about the Capitolite who went into a bar with a man from One, a woman from Twelve, and a cat from-"

I cannot suppress my wrath any longer. It bursts out of me, spraying like a hose over which I have no control. "CAN YOU GET ON WITH THE REAPING ALREADY?" I yell, allowing my rage to fuel the thunderous roar that builds deep in my chest and travels up through my throat and out of my open mouth.

"Right," says Gregorio with a nervous chuckle. "Right. The Reaping. Let's start with the females today."

"NO!" I shout, once again screaming with the energy of the fire within me.

Gregorio emits another nervous laugh. "Okay. I'll guess we'll start with the males then. I'm flexible guys. I'm here for you. Hey, speaking of flexible, did you hear the one about the acrobat who-"

I cut him off. "NO!" I shout once more. "NO, WE DIDN'T HEAR THE JOKE, AND WE HAVE ABSOLUTELY ZERO INTEREST IN HEARING IT. NOW WOULD YOU READ THE DAMN NAME ALREADY?"

"Okay then, my friends. Like I said, I'm flexible. I'm here for you."

"GET ON WITH IT!"

Finally, he slips his hand into the Reaping bowl and reads the name "Grover Blake!"

A trembling thirteen-year-old is pushed forward by his friends.

My body beats with boiling blood, and my mind rests on Adairia's beautiful face when I scream, "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" My heart races. As do my feet; I dash forward and bolt up the stairs to the stage. "MY NAME IS JARROD PALASH," I announce to the Square at full volume, before Gregorio gets the chance to ask.

"A Volunteer! This is just dandy!" says Gregorio with a whoop of glee, turning towards me. "No wonder you were so eager for the Reaping to begin and for me to draw the male name, young man. This is fantastic. This is great. This is good. You know what good sounds like?" He faces the audience once more. "It sounds like wood. You know where wood comes from? Of course you all know the answer to that; you live in District Seven! Wood comes from trees. So here's a great one about trees. Are you guys ready? Here goes: why did the pine tree get in trouble?" He pauses to wait for a response, that he - once again - fails to receive. "Because it was being knotty. No wait, you guys! There's plenty more where that came from. Listen to this: what type of tree fits in your hand?" This time he does not bother to wait; he answers right away. "A palm tree! Isn't that great, guys? Isn't that just hilarious." He slaps his knee in raucous laughter. "Ready for another one?"

"NO!" I holler for the third time. "Just Reap the female tribute already!"

He places an arm on my shoulder. I immediately shake it off. "We have an eager beaver right here. Speaking of beavers, what did the beaver say to the tree?"

"SHUT UP AND REAP THE GIRL ALREADY!" I bellow.

"It's been nice gnawing you," he says quickly. "That's what the beaver said to the tree." I emit a low growl, and Gregorio finally gets the message. He dips his hand into the great glass bowl of female names. "Havana Birch!" He announces with delight. "Come on down, Havana!"

The girl who emerges from amidst the seventeen-year-olds is tall, broad, and muscular. Her curly hair is frizzy and unkempt. Her dirt-spattered lumberjack's overalls are spotted with even more dirt than mine. As she walks, her face betrays no emotion. Her gait is slow, but even. She says nothing when she reaches the stage and stands next to Gregorio.

"Hello, hello, hello there, Havana! It's great to meet you. Speaking of meat, what's the difference between roast beef and pea soup? Anyone can roast beef, but no one can pee soup." He looks out expectantly at the crowd, and his face falls when no one laughs. "Maybe that one would have gone over better in District Ten. Should I have requested District Ten? No, no, the tree jokes were more suited to Seven." He throws one arm around my neck and the other around Havana's. "I'm glad I ended up as Seven's escort. I really like you guys."

In response, we both duck our heads and slip out of his grasp.

"Happy Hunger Games, Jarrod and Havana! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor! Hey! Speaking of favors, did you hear the one about-"

"NO!"

Gregorio finally gives up and falls silent.

His irritating demeanor has pushed me over the edge. It is as though my skin is physically steaming. I yearn to reach the Arena already, and to begin exacting my revenge against girls from District Four and wreaking havoc wherever I can.

* * *

 **Havana Birch, 17, District Seven Female**

* * *

Amaria shakes with uncontrollable sobs. I don't bother attempting to comfort her, and neither does father. He and I both sit in silence, staring unblinkingly at the wall ahead of us.

"Can we talk about that escort for a second," says Finlay with a laugh. "I mean, seriously, what is with that dude?"

Only Riley laughs. She laughs at everything Finlay says; she practically worships him.

Heidi continues to read her book. Amaria continues her relentless sobbing. Father and I continue to stare at the blank, white wall.

I take a deep breath and tear my gaze from the wall, focusing it instead on my father. "I love you, Father."

He breaks his gaze from the wall as well. "I love you too, Havana." He and I fall silent once more. For a moment, the only sounds are those of Amaria's terrified crying. Then, Father opens his mouth once more. "Havana, you know that you have a chance at this thing, right? Find an axe or a sword or anything else you can swing. Use your experience as a lumberjack. Feel the rhythmic thud of the axe in your bones. The axe has not failed you yet."

"That is correct, Father. The axe has not failed me yet."

Amaria finally stops crying long enough to launch herself into my arms. "I love you so much, Havana! Please come home to me! Our family needs you!"

Slowly, I lift my arms and rub her back, displaying affection for once. "Thank you Amaria, but I think you should go home now and take care of Thalia and Noah. They should not have to stay home alone with Ema."

Amaria nods and sniffs loudly. She wipes a glistening tear from her rosy cheek. I glance down and observe that her pretty sundress is now dotted with dark spots where her tears have spilled onto it in addition to the brown dirt that has rubbed onto it from my overalls. Amaria inches out of the room, dragging Finlay and Riley with her. I watch my siblings go, and all of a sudden I am met with an impulse that I act on. "I love you guys!" I shout at the top of my voice. Amaria, Finlay, and Riley turn around, stunned to hear me speaking so loudly. They turn around and wave. Amaria blows me a kiss. I smile at them as tears begin to prickle my eyes. I blink to clear away the tears, and when I open my eyes, my siblings are gone.

Father and I are left alone in the Justice Building. He tentatively lifts an arm and places it around my shoulders. I don't pull away. "Amaria's right. This family needs you, Havana. You do so much for us all." He squeezes my shoulder. "Now for some fatherly advice." He clears his throat. "Remember that the axe never fails you. Remember the rhythmic thudding as you swing it against the trees. Remember the wood and the trees and the forests and all of District Seven." He squeezes me once more. "But most of all, remember your family, Havana. Your family loves you, and we need you." With one final squeeze, he gets up and exits the room to return home where he will continue the routine of his life. Tomorrow, Father will return to the forest to chop wood with his axe. After work, he will come home and see his children and embrace them lovingly if he wishes.

As for me … from now on, before I swing my axe, I must make the toughest choice known to man: would I rather be killer or corpse? Will I fall to the ground like an innocent log or mutilate mercilessly like the sharp blade of an axe?

* * *

 **Woohoo! District Seven! We're moving right along! Thanks for reading, and I hope you guys leave a review to let me know what you think of Jarrod and Havana. I'd also love to know your thoughts on our newest escort, Gregorio; he was so much fun to write!**


	12. Something to Fight for

" _I have something to fight for and live for; that makes me a better killer."_

 **\- Ray Bradbury**

* * *

 **Kaiser Wolfgang, 16, District Eight Male**

* * *

Hands firmly clasped on the bow, I draw back my arm and watch the arrow fly into the distance. It joins the clouds amidst the endless blue sky. I continue to watch the arrow until it disappears from my view.

When it's gone, I continue to stare ahead of me, curious as to its whereabouts and slightly irked at the fact that it is lost to me forever. It is a testament to the quantity and magnitude of the loss I have experienced that all I have left to miss is an arrow. A mere piece of wood carved into a pointed stick.

"That's good," says Joseph, nodding his approval. "Very good." He is not wearing his mask; he holds it with three fingers of his left hand. His sandy blond hair flaps in the wind. His hazel eyes scan my body, appraising me.

"Thanks," I say, drawing another arrow. "I learned from the best."

He cracks a momentary smile at the compliment. Then he sighs and places a gloved hand on my shoulder. "Put down the bow and arrow, Kaiser. We need to talk."

I grunt my dissent, but nevertheless, I lower the bow and arrows to the ground.

Joseph removes his hand from my shoulder and drops the mask lightly. It lands gracefully beside my bow. "Please don't do it Kaiser. Don't Volunteer for the Games. I'm begging you." He drops to the floor. "Look. I'm literally on my hands and knees begging you not to Volunteer for the Hunger Games."

"Why?" I say sharply, bending down to retrieve my bow and sheath of arrows.

"Well … because despite your commendable skill with the bow and arrow, there's a good chance you'll die,"

I blink up at my only living friend, District Eight's Head Peacekeeper, Joseph Argus. "I know that. What do I have to live for? A meager, depressing life in the orphanage. My parents are dead. My friends are dead. Everyone I've ever loved is dead, so what do I have to live for? I might as well go out fighting in the Games."

Joseph places a hand on his chest, and a look of great offense crosses his features. "Not everyone is dead. _I'm_ not dead," he mutters. "And I need you here with me in District Eight, not Volunteering to be a pawn in the Capitol's evil grand scheme."

"I'm sorry, Joseph," I say, ducking my head in shame. "I didn't mean it like that. Of course I still have you. But however pathetic and lonely it may be, my life is still my own, so whether or not to Volunteer for the Games is no one's decision but mine." As I speak, my blue eyes bore heavily into his hazel ones defiantly; I refuse to be guilted into refraining from Volunteering. "And don't call me a pawn," I add harshly. "I'm not a pawn if it's my choice to play."

"Well, Kaiser, some games are not worth playing. The Hunger Games are definitely not worth playing if you have a choice in the matter," he snaps as he picks up his mask and returns it to his face. Joseph is now indistinguishable from every other Peacekeeper in the district. My friend is gone for the time being; he has been replaced by Head Peacekeeper Argus.

As Joseph stalks away, seething with anger, I feel a pang of guilt that I am forced to quell with a deep, calming breath.

I feel bad for upsetting Joseph, but not bad enough to stop myself from Volunteering. The way I live and die should be no one's choice but mine.

* * *

 **Calico Embry, 15, District Eight Female**

* * *

I work fast at my wheel in the factory, spinning fibers into usable cotton. Hours pass by, and my nimble fingers continue to complete the task assigned to them without break or complaint.

Thick, foggy air tickles my skin uncomfortably. I breathe in the dirty factory atmosphere, and I am forced to momentarily pause my spinning to cough when the filthy air invades my lungs. At the back of my mind, my brain is troubled by the fear of illness; what if I contract the same disease as Mom? Or a different disease entirely. We can barely afford Mom's medication; we will never have enough money for twice as much medicine ...

The work is long and tedious. The work is boring and unchanging. But the work is necessary to keep Mom alive, so I do it.

"It's payday, Calico. And closing time." My boss's voice interrupts the flow of my spinning. "Take your money and get out of here." He hands me an envelope full of bills; I open it up and count them.

"This is less than last time!" I spit, fed up with my poor treatment at the factory. I slam the envelope down on the floor and stamp my foot in anger. "It seems like every week you pay me less and less."

"Yeah, well, that's my prerogative, innit? You're too young to be working in this factory to begin with, so I'll either pay you what I wanna pay you, or you'll get the hell outta this factory, won't you?"

"I work harder than half the people here!" I can feel my face reddening with rage. "I deserve to be compensated fairly!"

"Well," he hesitates, contemplating.

"Well?"

"Well, that's your problem, innit Calico?"

"Fine," I hiss. I snatch the envelope and stomp out of the factory, cursing him under my breath.

I am seized with an urge to put as much distance between myself and the factory as possible. Fuming, I begin to sprint. I don't stop until I pass by the apothecary, and I remember that Mom needs a refill on her pills.

Trying and failing to control my anger, I throw the door open and march up to the counter.

Miriva, the woman who works behind the apothecary counter, recognizes me and greets me warmly. "Hello there, Cali!"

"Hi, Miriva," I grunt. Remembering my manners, I attempt to contort my mouth into a kind smile to match hers.

"Your mom needs a refill?" she guesses correctly.

"Yeah. A refill on this prescription," I hand her a slip of paper with the name of the drug written in mom's doctor's handwriting. After a moment's hesitation, I add, "please."

"Of course, honey," she says sweetly. She disappears for a moment and returns with a familiar looking green bottle that she hands to me.

I give her my envelope full of cash. I take a deep breath and look her in the eyes, trying my hardest to appear sweet and sympathetic. "Look, Miriva. I know there's not much in there, but my mom really needs the meds. Can I get you the rest next week?"

She purses her lips for a moment, thinking.

I let my head fall in disappointment. Just like my boss, Miriva won't let me catch a break. I am about to give her back the pills and turn around, sulking my way out of the store and back home, when Miriva surprises me. "Of course, Cali!" she says with a bright smile. "Anything for you and your mom."

"Really?" I say, smiling genuinely this time. "Wow thanks so much!" With my spirits momentarily lifted, I skip happily out of the apothecary and rush home to greet my mother.

* * *

 **Kaiser Wolfgang, 16, District Eight Male**

* * *

Peacekeepers line the edges of the District Square as we file into our designated sections. Their faces are masked, so I am unable to determine which one is which. Joseph could be any of the generic, muscular law-enforcers dressed in white.

In a way, that makes it easier; I won't have to see Joseph's disappointed face when I go through with my plans to Volunteer. I don't want to hurt him; I don't want to watch the pained look of betrayal cross his face when I choose to enter the Games.

Joseph does not understand. He will never understand that though I am young, I am hardened. I am broken. I will never be whole again. The rest of my life here in Eight would consist of nothing but hardship and poverty as I desperately awaited death for the next few decades. At least in the Games I will go out swinging. I will fight.

If I win, my life will turn around; I will live in a mansion in the Victor's Village. I will have every luxury afforded to me.

If I lose, then I will be dead, and it will all be over. My suffering will cease. I will rejoin my loved ones from beyond the grave, and I will finally be happy in whatever blissful afterlife follows this wretched, horrible world in which we live. And if there is no blissful afterlife, and I fade into oblivion, then at least I will no longer be suffering. I will no longer be anything.

District Eight's escort is a tall, blond woman named Sienna Ewell. This is her fourth year as our escort, and each year she has been none too hesitant to express her frustration with her district assignment; Eight has not brought home a single Victor during Crimson's presidency, which means that Eight's tributes have no mentors, and the Capitol looks upon Eight with scorn and disdain. Even District _Twelve_ has a Crimson-era Victor, and we don't.

To be fair, it's not just us; District Six has no Crimson-era Victors either. Eleven and Twelve are still the poorest districts, but Six and Eight are the least respected due to our mutual lack of Hunger Games success.

Sienna Ewell is ashamed to be the escort for lowly District Eight.

She claps her hands impatiently to begin the Reaping ceremony. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she begins in a bored voice once silence has fallen on the District Square. "Hi, District Eight. My name is Sienna Ewell. Blah, blah, blah. My job is to escort your tributes to the Capitol where they will prepare for the Hunger Games which this district has no chance of winning. Blah, blah, blah." She pulls out a nail file from the pocket of her jewel studded jacket and starts to work on her nails as she speaks. "Hopefully I'll be promoted to a more successful district next year, but for now, let's just get this over with."

She replaces the nail file in her jacket pocket. "I'll start with the females," she drawls with a dramatic sigh. She plunges her fist into the depths of the female Reaping bowl and pulls out one slip. "Calico Embry," she states simply.

A girl from the fifteen-year-old section curses loudly.

Sienna exhales slowly and speaks in her bored drawl of a voice. "Must you be so crass, Calico? By the way, is everyone in this entire district named Calico? In my four years as District Eight's escort, this is my third tribute named Calico. Don't you people know any other names?"

Sienna taps her foot impatiently when Calico does not move. "What's taking so long, Calico? Come up to the stage already, so I can escort you to your certain doom."

Calico separates herself from the other fifteen-year-olds and walks up to the stage. She scowls at the district while Sienna makes to choose the name of the male tribute. "Calix Hall," she says with a yawn. "That's a pretty similar name to Calico. I probably won't be able to tell the two of you apart."

Channeling my years of training with the peacekeepers, I propel myself forward, shouting "I Volunteer as tribute!"

"Well, I guess that's a surprise," says Sienna with a shrug. "I've never had a Volunteer before. What's your name, kid?"

"Kaiser Wolfgang," I reply. I find myself once again experiencing a rush of gratitude that the Peacekeepers are masked, so that I cannot identify Joseph. So as to keep myself from imagining him shaking his head at me and clucking his tongue in exasperation and disappointment, I focus my eyes on a random man in the crowd and force myself to listen intently to Sienna's words.

"Well kid, I guess you have a shot at this thing. Not a good shot, since you're from Eight, but still a shot I guess. You definitely have a better chance than Calico over here."

"Why?" Calico demands, speaking for the first time. "Why would you assume that he has a better chance than me? I need to win these Games and get back home to my mom. She _needs_ me. Do you have anyone at home who needs you, Kaiser? Do you have anyone at all whom you will be fighting to get back to?"

I think of Joseph's hardened face, his pristine Peacekeeper's uniform; Joseph who taught me how to run and fight and use a bow and arrow; Joseph who is the closest thing to family that I have left

I force myself to expel all thoughts of the Head Peacekeeper from my mind. Thinking of the hurt, disappointed look in his eyes will only make me weak. When I'm in the Hunger Games, I need to be strong like a fortified city or an angered ox.

I stare directly at the pale face of my district partner and meet her dark brown eyes. "No," I tell Calico. "I have no one to come home to. I have nothing worth fighting for."

All I have left is the fight itself.

* * *

 **Calico Embry, 15, District Eight Female**

* * *

Mom and I sit with our arms wrapped tightly around each other's bodies, each of us drawing comfort from the mere presence of her only family member, the only person she cares about in all of Panem.

Tears stream down Mom's face and land on the stringy brown hair atop my head. I don't move; I allow my head to become soaked with tokens of my mother's love and heartbreak.

Our embrace is broken when Mom begins to cough. She stands up shoves me away from her out of habit, even though she is not contagious. Her coughs are deep as a valley and wet as her tears. When the coughing storm has ceased, she clutches her throat with one hand and her chest with the other, panting harshly, desperate for fresh, clean air.

"Mom?" I say in a heavy voice, thick with tears. "Please come sit with me again."

She does as I ask, but she does not wrap her arms around me this time.

"Who will take care of you when I'm gone, Mom?" I ask in a shaky voice. "Who will work to support you and to buy your medicine? Who will make sure you're eating enough and taking your pills when you're supposed to? Who will take you to all of your doctor's appointments? Who will pay for them?"

My breathing is short and heavy. My vision is blurred, and my face burns my fingers to the touch. I stare at my lap.

"Sweetheart," says Mom with a single cough. "Please don't worry about all of those things. I need you not to worry about those things. Instead I need you to concentrate on winning the Games, so that you make it home to me. I need my beloved daughter to be happy and safe forever much more than I need a caretaker for the next few weeks."

I nod and dissolve into her warm, comforting arms once more. She strokes my hair silently for a while, waiting for me to speak, but I cannot. All I can do for the time being is sit with her, enjoying her embrace.

"Cali?" says Mom, after a few minutes of quietude.

"Yes, Mom?" I say with an attempt at a smile.

"Cali, I have something for you. It's a letter that I wrote you a while ago. I know that you will win the Games and come home to me, but just in case … I'm going to give it to you now. Is that okay?"

I nod my head vigorously. "Yes, of course that's okay, Mom."

She pulls out a blank white envelope bearing the words "To my dear daughter, Cali," written in Mom's loopy cursive handwriting.

Mom places the envelope in my hand and closes my fingers around it. "You have to promise me that you won't open this just yet. I need you to save it until you really need it. You also have to promise me that you _will_ read the letter at some point. You have to read it before you d-d … before you die, Cali."

"I promise to read the letter, Mom. I'll read it when I win the Games, or when I … you know … die."

"But …"

"Yeah?'

"But please don't, Cali. Please don't die. It's like you said up on stage; you have something worth fighting for. You have someone to come home to. That counts for something."

The truth is that I only feigned confidence to Kaiser, because I was angered that Sienna thought he has a better shot at winning the Games than I do, but I don't tell that to Mom. I simply nod and flash her a tight smile.

We resume hugging with the force of two bricks colliding until a Peacekeeper comes in and forces Mom to leave.

When she's gone, I brush my thumb over the word "Cali," written in Mom's beautiful script. A single tear drops down my nose and lands on the envelope with a splash, tainting the pristine white paper.

As I stare at my name written my Mom's hand, I remind myself repeatedly that I have someone to come home to. I have something to fight for.

* * *

 **Hey guys! I'm here with District Eight's Reaping :D Please leave a review, and let me know what you thought of Kaiser and Calico :) I'm sorry for having Sienna tease Calico for having a common District Eight name. I just think it's cool that the name "Calico" is used so many times for District Eight tributes, that it's as though it's a popular name amongst parents in the districts, and I wanted that to be pointed out, you know? Anyway, District Nine is up next!**

 **On a different note, the District Ten Male slot is open once again. This is because I recently learned that my D10M for this story, Miles, has been submitted to multiple SYOTs, which was against the rules on my profile at the time of submissions. I did allow a couple of tributes who were submitted to SYOTs that have been abandoned for several months, but the submitters told me, which Miles's submitter did not, and the other SYOT that Miles was submitted to is pretty new and active so … yeah. Since I have not introduced Miles yet, I just won't be using him. I PMed the submitter letting them know that I won't be using Miles, but I have not received a response.**

 **So anyway, if you are reading this and you have not yet submitted to this story and would like to do so, now is your chance :D I would love to get a new submitter involved, but if no one new to this story seems to want to submit, I will open it up to people who already have a tribute in the story.**

 **Sorry for the super long author's note. See you guys next time with District Nine! :D**


	13. Peace

" _Do not allow outer chaos disturb your inner tranquility, serenity, and peace."_

― **Debasish Mridha**

* * *

 **Tanner Weedon, 12, District Nine Male**

* * *

" _I never asked to be a mother!" she hisses, swinging her arms wildly, and sending a ceramic vase flying across the room. It lands on the floor with a roaring crash that mingles with Mother's screams. The resulting cacophony pierces my eardrums to their core and brings tears of fear and shame to my eyes._

" _I never wanted a son!" Mother shrieks, "much less a retarded, idiot boy who just has to go and get struck by lightning_."

 _Mother reaches for the next breakable object in her line of sight: a glass salad bowl._

 _Trembling with fear, I duck and cover my head with my hands. The bowl soars past me and hits the wall behind me, shattering into fragments that rain down on the floor in a sparkling cascade of tiny glass shards._

My eyes flutter open, and the white kitchen is transformed into a dank, gray room that I don't recognize. The room is crammed with beds, most of which are empty. Children buzz with whispered conversation as they pull on clothing and make their beds.

My heart pulsates harshly in my chest. Where am I? Who are all of these people?

I pull the sheets up over my nose to provide myself with some small protection from this strange place and the strangers within it.

I allow my eyes to nervously scan the room repeatedly, until the dark gray color of the ceiling resonates with my brain, and my memory is restored.

This is the District Nine Community Home. I live here, as do the other children floating about the cramped space. This is my home now: cold, dank, and loveless as my own mother's house.

I slowly push the sheet off of my body and climb out of bed. When the frigid air pierces my defenseless skin, I wrap my arms around myself. Holding my breath and staring at the floor, I tiptoe past the other beds, careful not to wake the few children who remain asleep; I don't want to bother anyone.

All I crave is the love and serenity that my childhood has so severely lacked so far.

As I pass the final set of beds, my attention is piqued by the sounds of a little boy's sobs. I briefly remove my eyes from the floor and rest them on the boy for a second. An older teenager has an arm around the crying child. I observe them momentarily. The older boy's lips are moving, but I do not register the words he speaks, until I hear a phrase that jolts something within me: "I love you, Wesley," says the older boy in a consoling voice saturated with affection. The younger boy's sobs lighten up and eventually cease.

The older boy catches me staring and his face twists into a grimace at the sight of mine.

I immediately look away and hang my head in shame. I did not intend to intrude on their moment. I did not mean to bother them. I was merely intrigued - and, shamefully, twinged with envy - at the bond those two people share. The younger boy's name, Wesley, rings over and over again in my brain until something clicks into place. I remember these boys; they have been at the Community Home for two years, ever since their parents' tragic demise.

They are brothers. They love each other. They have each other.

I wish I had someone who loved me.

I have no one.

* * *

 **Breezy Summers, 17, District Nine Female**

* * *

I am utterly at peace at this moment, as though a dove is whispering calming words into my ear.

The harsh carpet fibers dig into my skin, but I don't permit them to disrupt my tranquility.

"It's almost done, babe," Amelie says in a happy chirp. "I should finish it by the end of the day."

I watch her nimble fingers wind in and out of the colorful threads, twisting them together in an intricate pattern. "Don't worry," I say with a shrug. "Take your time." I scoot over and plant a kiss on her cheek. "We have all the time in the world."

"Can you make me one next?" Sunny asks in a calm voice from across the room. She is sitting on Windy's bed with her eyes closed and her legs sprawled lazily.

"Sure," says Amelie with a smile.

The three of us sigh contentedly in unison. I continue to watch Amelie's fingers work. Sunny crosses her legs and exhales gradually, meditating. We sit in silence, each at peace with her thoughts, until we are interrupted by the sounds of my little brothers' shouted conversation.

"I have an idea!" Ryland informs his twin brother, loudly enough for the whole house hear.

"It better be better than your last idea," Roland replies. I can practically hear the eye roll in his voice.

"It is," Ryland assures him. I imagine his face twisting into an evil grin. Ryland drops his voice to a whisper; I don't catch the content of his idea.

Sunny opens her eyes and shakes her head. "Breezy, your brothers enjoy bringing about destruction. They should focus on improving the world rather than destroying it. We should all focus on improving the world." With a deep sigh, she descends back into her state of meditation.

I shrug. "I'm not too fussed. They can do what they want."

The door bangs open, and Windy storms in with her hands on her hips, huffing with nerves. "No, they most certainly cannot do what they want, Breezy!" my sister chides. "I am sick of being the only one who ever disciplines them. Now - you'll never believe this! - they're planning to change the time on every clock in the house by three hours."

"So?" I ask calmly.

" _So?"_ Windy demands. She sighs in exasperation. " _So,_ Breezy, our little brothers are a couple of hooligans. Is that what you want? Do you want a pair of hooligans for little brothers? Huh?"

I maintain my casual tone of voice. "I like them just the way they are."

Windy rolls her eyes dramatically and glares at me.

"Come on, Windy, you've got to relax a bit. Sit down, and hang out with us for a while. Amelie can make you a friendship bracelet when she's done with mine and Sunny's."

Amelie looks up. "Do you want one, Windy?"

"No thank you, Amelie," Windy replies stiffly. She crosses the threshold and sits down on her bed next to Sunny. "Tasha, in the future, would you please ask my permission before sitting on my bed?"

"It's Sunny," Sunny reminds her; her eyes are now open, her meditation ceased. "No one calls me Tasha anymore. And … sorry … do you mind if I sit on your bed, Windy?"

"No. I do not mind," Windy says reasonably. I give her a nod of encouragement, glad that my sister is lightening up somewhat. Maybe I am rubbing off on her. "But please don't put your feet on the bed T- I mean Sunny."

With a shrug, Sunny swings her legs over the side of the bed and dangles them in the air.

"Crisis averted," Windy says with satisfaction.

Now that one "crisis" has been taken care of, Windy moves on to the next one. She bites her lip. "How are you three so calm right now?" she demands. "I was always a total wreck before a Reaping. The day after last year's Reaping I felt momentary relief that I finally aged out of eligibility, but a second later the nerves returned, because I still have you to worry about, Breezy!." She begins to hyperventilate and places a hand on her chest. "And in just two years, the twins will be twelve, and then I'll have to worry about _them_!" Tears begin to leak out of her eyelids. "How are you so freaking calm?!"

I stand up and cross to Windy's side of the room. I place an arm around her and kiss the top of her head. "I love you, Windy, but you have to understand that Amelie, Sunny, and I … we're not like you."

She sniffs. "What do you mean?"

I grin. "We're chilled out."

* * *

 **Tanner Weedon, 12, District Nine Male**

* * *

I am surrounded by people, some chatting nervously, some racked with sobs, some silent and stoic.

Where am I? How did I get here? Who are all these people?

"Hello District Nine!" says a roaring male voice. I follow the sound of the voice; my eyes locate the burly, yellow-haired speaker who is elevated on a platform. The starkness of his thick, black eyeliner is quite alarming. I look away and put my head down.

The roaring voice pangs my ears once more. "Welcome to the Reaping ceremony for the ninety-fifth annual Hunger Games!"

At the word "Reaping," a piece of my memory snaps into place. Is that what I'm doing here with all these people? Is today Reaping Day?

The booming man continues to speak, but my brain does not register his words. I nervously glance back and forth. More of the other children have started to cry. My eyes swing around, taking in the sights of all of these people standing around me, comforting each other.

It is warm outside; the sun beats down onto my bare flesh. Yet, I am shivering. I wrap my arms around myself, silently wishing I had someone - _anyone_ \- in my life who cared enough about me to give me a hug or even a few kind words.

The roaring voice floats back to me from somewhere in the distance. It says my name. The roaring voice says "Tanner Weedon!" from far, far away.

The children around me move to the sides. People in thick white suits are coming at me with their arms outstretched. I am used to other kids staying away from me, but I am not used to the big white suits barreling towards me. Giant hands grab me with the brute force I associate with Mother, only much stronger.

"What's going on?" I mutter, trembling with fear. "Who are you?"

But I receive no answer.

When the giant hands release me, I find myself in close proximity to the scary man with the eyeliner. He looks at me. I back up, cowering in fear.

So many people are watching me now. I look down at the floor, wishing I did not have to burden them with my fear, wishing I could get away from all of these people and the scary booming man and the thick white uniforms, wishing I could find some peace and solace with someone nice, who is not scary, and who truly cares for me.

The scary man's voice booms once more. It says my name, Tanner, among other things that I do not pick up on; I am not focused on the booming man or the rest of the district. I am only focused on looking at the floor where I can just be, without interruption from other children or the big white suits or the booming man.

The booming man says the words "Breezy Summers." I tear my eyes away from the floor, to see what that means.

I think it is a girl's name, because the crowd parts to reveal a pretty girl with blond hair. The girl hesitated for a moment, then shrugs and comes to stand with me and the booming man.

Breezy sees me watching her, and she smiles. She has a pretty smile. I take a tiny step forward and flash a momentary grin back at her. Then I resume staring at the floor.

I like Breezy. She seems nice. Maybe one day she will be the one to treat me with kindness.

* * *

 **Breezy Summers, 17, District Nine Female**

* * *

Throughout my life, I have been a calming presence to those around me. Throughout my life, I have been a force of serenity, but in this moment I am incapable of maintaining my composure.

For what could disrupt the quietude of my thoughts but a sentence to choose between evil and death?

My breaths are quick. My sobbing is uncontrollable.

My parents and siblings sit around me. Windy and Pa are bawling along with me, while Ma and the boys merely stare at me, refusing to tear their gazes away from my wet, splotchy face.

It is not until Windy takes a deep, calming breath and halts her tears, that I force myself to do the same.

Windy puts her arm around me and draws me in close to her chest. Seventeen years of sisterhood allows something deep and emotional to pass between us without words; silently, we convey our love for each other and our gratitude for these last few moments of closeness before we are ripped apart.

Ma is the first to speak. "You're a smart girl, Breezy … I think you have a real shot at this. You're reasonably strong too, compared to some of the other tributes, like that poor little boy, for example."

I nod solemnly. My poor little district partner is so sweet and innocent. When I glimpsed his face, I got the sense that the scars it bears outwardly are nothing to the boy's internal pain. I almost gave him a hug right there up on stage, but I didn't want to frighten the poor thing by showing affection like that before we get to know each other.

"I concur, Mother," says Windy, nodding her head.

Pa nods in agreement with his wife. "She's right, Breezy. You can win the Games. You can come home to us. I know you can! Please!" The look in his eyes is one of pleading, as though he can convince me to win the Games. As though I can choose to be the Victor.

"You better win," pipes up Roland.

"Yeah!" Ryland chides. "We need you around here, Breezy. You're our favorite sister. Windy's no fun to tease."

With a genuine laugh, I release myself from Windy's grasp to hug each of my brothers and bid them farewell. Next, I embrace each of my parents, and they follow their sons out of the Justice Building, leaving me alone with Windy.

The moment we are alone, she rounds on me. "You need to take the Games seriously, Breezy! Your _life_ is _literally_ at stake here; the Arena is no place to relax or let your guard down. I can tell that the initial shock of the Reaping has already worn off, and your mind is returning to that happy, peaceful state in which in normally lives …"

She's absolutely right; since I stopped crying, the familiar calmness has gradually engulfed me.

"but the Hunger Games are _serious business_ ," Windy continues. "Don't just sit around lazily during training when you can be preparing for the Games. And once you're in the Games, don't just wait around for some bloodthirsty Career to kill you; keep yourself well hidden and protected."

I merely smile into my sister's bright blue eyes as she speaks, touched - though not shocked - by the extent to which she cares about me. "Father's right, you know. You _need_ to win the Hunger Games, because we need you, Breezy." She pauses to wrap her arms around me. "I need you," she whispers, releasing me from her embrace and inching away.

"I know," I murmur, when she is already out of earshot.

Sunny and Amelie come in when Windy is gone. Sunny runs into my arms first. "Oh, Breezy," she clucks her tongue. "I can't believe you are going to that horrible place filled with evil and corruption and destruction." She sighs and flashes me a tight smile. "I will miss you, friend."

"I'll miss you too, Sunny," I say, squeezing her tightly.

With one final squeeze of the hand, Sunny leaves me alone with Amelie.

Either I never fully appreciated her beauty or the prospect of death has provided me with a rosier view of life. My eyes ingest the glow of her caramel colored skin, the clever sparkle in her hazel eyes, the shine of her silky black hair when it catches the light, trying to imprint it all in the depths of my memory.

I run my fingers through Amelie's hair, consumed by its luscious, velvety texture.

"I didn't get a chance to finish it," she mutters, voice cracking. She holds out the half-finished bracelet.

I stroke her cheek gently and smile. "It's perfect the way it is, just like the girl who made it." I hold out my arm.

"And just like the girl who will wear it," she replies, meeting my smile and tying the handmade bracelet around my outstretched wrist. I stare at it for a moment, marveling at the lilac, green, and yellow threads woven together. I close my eyes and find myself transported to an endless green meadow, dotted with yellow dandelions and purple asters.

Eyes still shut, I feel the presence of Amelie's lips against my own. In my mind's eye, we are together in the vast, luscious meadow, lying with our backs against the soft, green grass. Too soon, Amelie pulls away, and my eyes snap open, drawing me back to reality.

We exchange one last smile. Then, wordlessly, she turns on her heel and exits the goodbye room.

I fiddle with the bracelet, enjoying the familiar feeling of tranquility as it washes over me once more.

* * *

 **Hi everyone! I'm here with the District Nine Reaping :D Please leave a review, and let me know what you think of Tanner and Breezy!**

 **Tanner has neurological damage which is what causes his confusion and amnesia. I hope I portrayed him all right.**

 **On another note, I am so, so sorry for the longer than usual gap between the last chapter and this one; I recently started a summer job, so I don't have quite as much time to write as I used to. Expect updates roughly once a week for the rest of the summer, although I obviously can't write the next Reaping until I have a District Ten Male.**

 **Finally, I have been a bit disappointed with the review count lately; the last two chapters** **only received 5 reviews (to the people who have been reviewing: thank you so much! I really appreciate it). I understand that people are busy, but if you have a tribute (or two) in this story, I would definitely appreciate it if you reviewed at least once in a while, so that I know you are reading the story.**

 **Thanks for reading, and have a great day!**


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